As we spoke we strolled towards the boat-house and I glanced in curiously, but although I pressed my head close I couldn’t see beyond the dust-engrimed window.
‘No one uses the boat-house now,’ Verity said quietly. ‘Mr.
Seaton hasn’t taken out the sloop since the accident.’
Mr. Seaton! For a moment I was puzzled, then I realized she was speaking about Garth. Strange how I already thought of him as Garth. She spoke his name with a sort of reverence and I guessed that she, like others in this part of the world, looked up to him as a sort of feudal overlord, and the thought annoyed me slightly. Garth Seaton would not find this subservience towards his position in me, I resolved.
Verity let the stones slip through her fingers. ‘It was dreadful,’
she said with a little shudder. ‘I’ll never forget Paul’s face when he told me they’d found Mr. Giles. It was days after the accident and miles down the coast. I suppose,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘he was remembering the old days and let unpleasant bygones be bygones.’
I stared at her for a moment. ‘Do you mean he didn’t like Mr.
Giles?’ I asked.
‘Whatever disagreement they had it was between them, and of course Paul never discussed it. But I saw the change in his attitude to Mr. Giles.’
Then I saw a reserve close down on her pleasant features. She was remembering, no doubt, that I was a stranger here. She knew nothing about me. She was too responsible a person carelessly to initiate me into local gossip and secrets. This was a close-knit community and whatever her enigmatic remark had meant it was clear that she felt this was neither the right time nor place to divulge it. But then she probably took my interest as merely ill-mannered curiosity. I should have to be extremely circumspect or I should find myself up against a blank uncompromising wall of silence.
I changed the subject, hoping she’d be more communicative concerning my pupil. ‘Paul was telling me that the child I’m to coach in English is called Emile Lelant and that his father was a French count.’
I saw a demure, faintly mischievous smile touch her lips.
‘Indeed Paul may not know much about the child or his father, but he certainly knew Armanell. I don’t think there was a man hereabouts who didn’t fall in love with her.’
‘Armanell?’
‘Yes, the boy’s mother. She lived with her father in a house further along the coast on a cliff overlooking the sea. It’s a lovely old home, although it isn’t a patch on Tregillis,’ she added with a touch of pride. ‘Armanell was extraordinarily beautiful and, as I say, every man was crazy about her.’
‘You talk about her in the past tense. Is she dead?’
She looked surprised and said thoughtfully, ‘Yes, I expect I do think of her as belonging to the past, for when she was still quite young she married a far-out relation in Normandy, the Comte de Chalandon, and went to live in France. They say he was very much older than she was and very wealthy, and as her father was ailing I expect he more or less arranged the marriage so that she would be comfortably settled in life before he died. I don’t really think she had much choice in it— or at least that’s what the men hereabouts said,’ she smiled tolerantly. ‘Maybe it was to soothe their vanity, because there was none she ever looked at seriously except Mr. Garth. In those days when Mr. Giles and his wife and Diana were still together, Garth was invited to Tregillis and he and Armanell went wandering around the coast together or sailing in the sloop. They loved the sea, both of them, and could sail a boat in any weather, but as I said, ever since the accident Mr. Garth has never been near a sail.’ She relapsed into silence.
‘Then the child I’m to teach is Armanell’s son!’
Had Garth Seaton returned Armanell’s love? I wondered. If so, how did he feel now that her son was to be a guest beneath his roof? Verity had said that Armanell was beautiful. What was she really like? I wondered. Surely it had taken more than mere beauty to enslave the young men in her world. ‘I expect she was very gay and lively,’ I hazarded.
Verity considered this. ‘I don’t really know. You see I didn’t see much of her, but I remember once seeing her riding across the moors with Mr. Garth and I thought I’d never seen anything so lovely. She was like a beautiful lady from the court of King Arthur.’
I smiled. ‘Oh yes, and Arthur’s kingdom was supposed to be in Cornwall, wasn’t it?’
She nodded, pleased. ‘I’ve always loved stories about King Arthur’s Court, especially the one about Guinevere and Lancelot.’
She paused and considered. ‘Yes, I think Armanell would have been like Queen Guinevere, “the fairest in the land”.’
‘And Garth would be Sir Lancelot?’ I queried.
She gave a peal of genuine amusement. ‘Oh, dear me, no. More like Sir Turquine! Although I suppose he’s handsome enough in his own way. But then,’ she shrugged, ‘my father was a fisherman: we lived in a small cottage. We didn’t meet socially: the Seatons and their like came of a different world.’
Her calm acceptance irritated me. ‘But what difference does it make?’
She regarded me with an air of mature wisdom. ‘A great deal when you’re the owner of Tregillis. They’re considered a sort of royalty in their own right. At least that’s how their employees look on them.’
‘Then they’re very silly,’ I said crossly. ‘Anyway, you’re not an employee of his.’
She shrugged. ‘Then I’m the next best thing. Paul is his steward and, I suppose, a sort of friend—as much as a man like Garth Seaton ever has intimate friends. And I’m housekeeper to Paul, so what does that make me?’
Suddenly my anger was replaced by a flash of recognition that made the colour rush to my cheeks. How stupidly and childishly unrealistic my pride must seem to Verity! Who was I, after all, to put on airs? In her view I, too, was no more than Garth’s employee, dependent on his bounty. I should be paid a salary, just as his other servants were. How was she to know I was financially independent, able to fling the dust of Tregillis from my shoes the moment I found conditions intolerable? And should I find them intolerable? I wondered.
Later when I had left her, after promising to call on her and look at her jewellery, I walked slowly back to the house with the conviction that conditions would have to be very intolerable indeed before I would leave Tregillis. I had always been inquisitive and I remembered Diana’s gentle laughing reproaches when I had questioned her too closely about her affairs.
No, there was so much I wanted to know, and although I didn’t actually admit it to myself I was insatiably curious concerning Garth Seaton.
As I approached the house I found a limousine at the door. In the hall Mrs. Kinnefer was being greeted by a small, self-possessed schoolboy. A bored-looking chauffeur stood beside a pile of luggage.
She turned to me. ‘It’s Emile Lelant. And this is Miss Westall, the lady who will teach you English,’ she informed him.
As he gravely acknowledged the introduction it struck me that his English vocabulary was excellent, although his intonation was decidedly French. ‘Uncle Garth was telling me about you,’ he continued. ‘He’s staying with Mama at Ghalandon.’
I could see that Mrs. Kinnefer was taken aback at this piece of information. ‘And did he say when he would be returning?’ she asked.
‘Oh, not for weeks and weeks. He was going to bring me to Tregillis, but Mama said Wilson would take me instead and Uncle Garth should stay on.’
I saw the chauffeur wink knowingly and Mrs. Kinnefer quell him with a frown.
So it looked as if Diana had been right! Now that Armanell was free, Garth had lost no time in introducing himself into her life again!
‘Lunch will be ready in ten minutes,’ Mrs. Kinnefer was saying briskly, as though glad to be on familiar ground. ‘I’ll fetch Melinda and you can have it together.’
‘Melinda,’ he said, still with that air of being a polite and enquiring adult.
‘Melinda Markham; Mr. Seaton’s niece. She’s staying here w
hile her people are in Africa. No doubt you’ll be great friends,’
she said encouragingly, ‘and be able to play about together.’
The idea of this grave, sedate child playing with the wild, uncontrollable Melinda was so incongruous that I could barely contain a smile.
‘Melinda is an old-fashioned name, isn’t it?’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Yaaaah!’ The eldrich screech rang through the hall and we looked up to find Melinda looking over the gallery rails, her pale face and strange hair making her look indeed like the witch she purported to be. ‘Yaah, yaah, old-fashioned! What about your own? Emile’s a stupid, silly name and I bet you eat frogs’ legs!’
Strangely enough Emile was completely unperturbed by this extraordinary greeting. He turned to me with a look of enquiry.
‘Frogs’ legs? I do not understand,’ he said patiently.
‘Take no notice,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Melinda’s an extremely rude little girl.’
‘I expect,’ he said composedly, ‘it is because I am French. Lots of foolish people imagine the French consume nothing but snails and frogs’ legs.’
There was a silence above while Melinda digested this. ‘I am not foolish,’ she said balefully. ‘And I’ll make you an apple-pie bed for that, see if I don’t!’
‘Do come down, Melinda,’ Mrs. Kinnefer said irritably. ‘I don’t know what on earth Emile will think of you carrying on this way when he has just arrived.’
‘Who cares what he thinks of me?’ She skidded towards the stairway along the polished floor of the gallery and then, flinging her leg over the banister, slid down with rapid and practised ease until she reached the tall, carved newel at the end, then slowly stalked the few remaining steps. Her face was streaked with dust and her hair sticky with cobwebs.
‘Do go and wash yourself up, Melinda,’ Mrs. Kinnefer said, ‘or I do declare I shan’t serve you a bite of lunch. A civilized body wouldn’t sit at the same table with you.’
But Melinda wasn’t taking the smallest notice of this injunction.
She walked slowly up to Emile and surveyed him from top to toe with a look of utmost contempt. ‘You’re not at all dressed like a little boy,’ she said consideringly. ‘I’ll bet you’re a midget. Yes, that’s it. You’re a midget who’s taken Emile’s place.’
Emile received this pronouncement with an air of considering gravity. ‘I’m Emile Lelant,’ he said at last, ‘and I live at the Chateau de Chalandon in Normandy and I’m eight on my next birthday.’
Melinda flicked back her hair with an air of contempt. ‘Ha, what of it? I’m eight and a half, so I m older than you and you’ll do as I say.’
‘Children, children,’ Mrs. Kinnefer interjected weakly. She glanced at me appealingly.
It was time the situation was taken in hand before it disintegrated completely, I decided. ‘Go and tidy yourself before lunch, Melinda,’ I said sternly. ‘If you don’t you can have lunch alone and Emile and I shall have it together.’
I could see she was on the point of one of her furious refusals, but obviously the prospect of a further attack on Emile during lunch was not something she intended to forgo. ‘Oh, very well,’
she said sulkily. Then, as a parting thrust, she glanced at the luggage that lay in a pile at the hall door: they were heavy, old-fashioned hide cases, obviously relics of a past generation of Lelants. ‘Your luggage is stupid, too,’ she pronounced flatly.
Strangely enough Emile seemed stung by this—for Melinda—
fairly innocuous remark. ‘It is not stupid,’ he said fiercely, then drew himself up proudly. ‘It belonged to my grandfather, the Comte de Chalandon.’
With a further derisive ‘Yaah’ Melinda swept off. ‘Really, the child gets worse every day. I don’t know what’s to become of her,’ Mrs. Kinnefer said helplessly.
Emile, now that Melinda had departed, had wandered over to one of the windows and, curled up on the window-seat, was gazing pensively out.
‘He seems such a nice, well-behaved child too,’ she whispered.
‘I must say, in a way, I’m pleasantly surprised, because he’s not at all like—’ she stopped and coughed as though to cover an indiscretion.
Had she been going to say, not at all like Armanell? I wondered, for she must have known the boy’s mother before her marriage.
‘Wilson, take the cases up to the gallery. I’ll arrange a room later,’
Mrs. Kinnefer instructed the chauffeur. Still looking bored, Wilson gathered up the cases,
tucking the smaller ones under his arm.
‘That Melinda’s a caution; there’s no denying it,’ he announced with an air of gloomy admiration. He jerked his head in Emile’s direction. ‘I’d say he don’t stand a chance,’ he said sotto voce.
‘Once Melinda gets a set on him she’ll make him wish he’d never set eyes on Tregillis.’
Mrs. Kinnefer bridled. ‘Indeed, I’ll see that Mr. Garth hears of her behaviour, and when I want your opinion I’ll ask for it, Wilson.
‘Hoity-toity,’ Wilson grumbled as he began to climb the stairs, but he apparently took the housekeeper’s admonitions with good-natured indifference.
Mrs. Kinnefer turned to me. ‘Mr. Paul will have lunch with you today as he’s here at Tregillis doing up the books. I think I’ll put you in the small dining room. There’s only yourself as Miss Eunice sticks to her own quarters, and it’s cosier anyway.’ Her manner held a faint air of defensiveness. To be put into the small dining-room was evidently in her eyes to be socially down-graded.
But I had already caught a glimpse of the enormous main dining-room with its vast sideboard and heavy silver and was delighted when Mrs. Kinnefer later showed us into a small octagonal room. Its walls were lined with tiers of dainty miniatures : the clear translucent enamels of the paintings were extraordinarily attractive against the blue and white walls.
We sat at a round Regency table and as the meal progressed I was pleasantly surprised to find that Melinda appeared docile and silent. It was as though she had forgotten the presence of the little boy who sat across from her placidly spooning his soup.
It was when Paul, making polite desultory conversation, mentioned that they held a regatta every year locally that Melinda began to show her true colours.
‘Uncle Garth has lots of cups in his study,’ she announced proudly. ‘I wish he’d sail again and I’d crew for him this time.’
Her eyes grew dreamy as her too vivid imagination got to work.
‘And we’d win lots of races and afterwards he’d thank me for my wonderful help. “But for you, Melinda, all would have been lost.”’
She whispered the words as though she had forgotten our presence, but as Paul burst out laughing her eyes darkened ominously.
‘You are a weird kid, aren’t you?’ Paul said between peals of laughter.
Melinda laid down her spoon with slow deliberation. ‘I’m not weird,’ she said tightly. ‘It’s you who are weird.’
Paul glanced at me with amused eyes and said, ‘Well, that’s one thing I’ve never been accused of before, Judith. In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m one of those transparent, easy-going people, whom everyone despises.’
‘You are weird too,’ Melinda repeated monotonously, as she saw herself ignored. ‘I’ve heard people talk,’ she added darkly.
‘And what do they say about me?’ Paul inquired, still with that air of amused tolerance.
Melinda’s face grew peaked with malice. ‘They say,’ she announced slowly, ‘that you had the sloop out before Uncle Garth and Great-uncle Giles went sailing and that something happened to the boat when you had it. That’s why it capsized later.’
I saw Paul’s face stiffen and now there was no amusement in his voice as he said distinctly, ‘What a horrible child you are, Melinda!
Can you think of nothing except making trouble?’
‘I’m only repeating what I heard,’ Melinda said in an aggrieved voice. ‘People say they saw you take the sl
oop in against the rocks and it was probably then that the damage was caused. Everyone knows,’ she added, ‘that you’re no good with boats.’
Paul seemed to have regained his equanimity. ‘True,’ he said.
‘At least they’ve got that right, but I’m sorry to disappoint you.
The boat was in perfect condition when I returned.’
Why was he bothering to make any explanations to the appalling child? I wondered. Why not ignore her? Could there possibly be some truth in the rumour? I remembered Cousin Eunice’s remark about Paul. ‘A nice boy but deeper than he appears.’ Verity too had hinted at a quarrel between him and Giles. Had she been mistaken in thinking he was going to let bygones be bygones? Beneath that easy-going manner had he been harbouring an implacable revenge against Giles Seaton? And if so, what had passed between the two men, I wondered, that could cause such a dark hatred?
Even as it crossed my mind I dismissed the idea. Was I becoming affected, I wondered a little grimly, by Melinda’s malice? From what I had heard of Giles Seaton he had been a gentle and inoffensive character—hardly the type to engender such hatred.
We didn’t dawdle over the meal and as soon as it was concluded Paul hurried back to the study in the recesses of the house and, with some misgivings, I saw that Emile had wandered off with Melinda who had loftily suggested a game of hide-and-seek in the picture gallery. I only hoped her intentions were as innocent as they seemed, because I feared that she had not let up for one minute in her intention of making Emile’s life as unbearable as possible.
When I was alone I wandered back into the hall and paused outside an arched door that led off to one side. I felt intrigued and curious to know what lay behind the iron-bound door: it looked so old and even sinister, the sort of door, no doubt, behind which lay Bluebeard’s secrets. Then I had to laugh at myself as Mrs.
Garth of Tregillis Page 5
