The Time of the Hunter's Moon

by Victoria Holt

  “That was where they went when they died,” I reminded her.

  “Well, to some nice place where there was feasting and banquets.”

  She took to joining us most afternoons.

  “What would Madame de Guérin say if she knew?” asked Lydia.

  “We’d probably be expelled,” added Monique.

  “What luck for all those on the waiting list. Four at one go.”

  Elsa would sit on the edge of a chair laughing at us.

  “Tell me about your father’s château” she would say to Monique.

  And Monique told her about the formality of her home and how she was more or less betrothed to Henri de la Creseuse who owned the estate adjoining her father’s.

  Then Frieda told of her stern father who would certainly find a baron at least for her to marry. Lydia spoke of her two brothers who would be bankers like her father.

  “Tell me about Cordelia,” said Elsa.

  “Cordelia is the luckiest of the lot,” cried Lydia. “She has the most wonderful aunt who lets her do just what she likes. I love to hear about Aunt Patty. I am sure she’ll never try to make Cordelia marry some baron or old man because he has a title and money. Cordelia will marry just whom she pleases.”

  “And she’ll be rich in her own right. She’ll have that lovely old Manor House. It’ll all be yours one day, Cordelia, and you won’t have to marry someone to get it.”

  “I shan’t want it because it means Aunt Patty would have to die first.”

  “But it will all be yours one day. You’ll be rich and independent.”

  Elsa wanted to know about Grantley Manor and I gave a glowing description. I wondered if I exaggerated a little, stressing the splendors of Grantley. I certainly did not in describing the eccentric charm of Aunt Patty. No one could really do her justice. But how happy I was talking of her and how the others envied me, coming as they did from sterner and more conventional homes.

  “I reckon,” said Elsa one day, “you’ll all be married very soon.”

  “Heaven forbid,” said Lydia. “I want to enjoy myself first.”

  “Have you ever been to Pilcher’s Peak?” asked Elsa.

  “I’ve heard of it,” said Frieda.

  “It’s only two miles from here.”

  “Is it worth seeing?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. It’s in the forest; a strange rock. There’s a story about it. I always liked those stories.”

  “What story?”

  “If you go there on certain times you can see your future lover…or husband.”

  We laughed.

  Monique said: “I’ve no particular desire to see Henri de la Creseuse just now. Time enough when I leave.”

  “Ah,” said Elsa, “but it may be the fates have decided he is not meant for you.”

  “And the man who is will appear at this place? What is this Pilcher’s Peak?”

  “I’ll tell you the story. Years and years ago they used to take lovers caught in adultery to Pilcher’s Peak, make them climb to the top and then throw them down. They always took them there on the night of the full moon. So many died that their blood made the ground fertile and the trees grew round the Peak and made the forest.”

  “And this is the place we ought to visit?”

  “Cordelia is in her last term. She won’t have many opportunities, and she ought to see it while she can. Tomorrow night it will be full moon and it’s the Hunter’s Moon too. That’s a good time.”

  “Hunter’s Moon?” echoed Monique.

  “The one that follows the Harvest Moon. It is one of the best and it is the time of the hunting season. It comes in October.”

  “Is it really October?” asked Frieda. “It seems so warm.”

  “It was cold last night,” said Lydia, shivering in memory.

  “In the day it is lovely,” I said. “We ought to make the most of it. It’s odd to think I shall not be coming back.”

  “Shall you mind?” asked Monique.

  “I shall miss you all.”

  “And you will be with that wonderful aunt,” said Frieda enviously.

  “And you’ll be rich,” said Elsa, “and independent too, for you will own that school and the wonderful old Manor House.”

  “No, no. Not for years. I’d have it when Aunt Patty dies and I’d never want that.”

  Elsa nodded. “Well,” she said, “if you don’t want to go to Pilcher’s Peak I’ll tell some of the others.”

  “Why don’t we go?” said Lydia. “Is it tomorrow…the full moon?”

  “We could take the wagonette.”

  “We could say we wanted to see some of the wild flowers in the forest.”

  “Do you think we should be permitted? Wild flowers are scarcely a topic for the drawing rooms of the elite. And what wild flowers are there at this time of the year?”

  “We could think of something else,” said Lydia.

  Nobody could, however, and the harder we thought the more enticing a trip to Pilcher’s Peak became.

  “I know,” said Elsa at length, “you are going into the town to select a pair of gloves for Cordelia’s aunt. She was so impressed by those Cordelia came home with and of course they can’t make such gloves…so chic, so right…anywhere but in Switzerland. That will seem very plausible to Madame. Then the wagonette instead of going into the town turns off and goes into the forest. It is only two miles. You could ask for extended time as you wish to call into the patisserie for a cup of coffee and one of those cream gâteau which can only be found in Switzerland. I am sure permission would be granted, and that will give you time to go to the forest and sit under the lovers’ oak tree.”

  “What perfidy!” I cried. “What if Madame de Guérin knew that you were corrupting us? You’d be turned out to wander in the snowy mountains.”

  Elsa put the palms of her hands together as though in prayer. “I beg you do not betray me. It is only a joke. I wish to put a little romance into your lives.”

  I laughed with the others. “Well, why shouldn’t we go? Tell us what we do, Elsa.”

  “You sit under the oak. You can’t fail to see it. It’s there below the Peak. You just sit there and talk together…just naturally, you know. Then if you are lucky, your future husband will appear.”

  “One between four of us!” cried Monique.

  “Perhaps more…who can say? But if one comes that is enough to show you there is something in our legend, eh?”

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Frieda.

  “It will be somewhere to go,” added Monique.

  “Our last little outing before winter comes,” said Lydia.

  “Who knows? It may start tomorrow.”

  “Then too late for Cordelia,” Lydia reminded us. “Oh, Cordelia, do persuade Aunt Patty to let you stay another year.”

  “Two is really enough to put the polish on. I must be positively gleaming already.”

  We laughed awhile and we decided that on the following afternoon we would go to Pilcher’s Peak.

  ***

  It was a clear afternoon when we set out. The sun made it as warm as spring and we were in high spirits as the wagonette turned off from the road to the town and took us up to the forest. The air was clear and crisp and the snow sparkled on the distant mountaintops. I could smell the pungency of the pines which made up most of the forest, but there were among the evergreens some oaks, and it was one of these which we had to look for.

  We asked the driver about Pilcher’s Peak and he told us we couldn’t miss it. He’d show us when we turned the bend. We would see it then rising high above the ravine.

  The scenery was superb. In the distance we saw mountain slopes, some of them wooded near the valleys, the vegetation growing more sparse farther up.

  “I wonder which of us will see him?” whispered Lydia.

  “None,” responded Frieda.

  Monique laughed. “It won’t be me because I am already bespoke.”

  We all laughed.

  “I think Elsa
makes up half the things she says,” I added.

  “Do you believe that about her coming down in the world?”

  “I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully. “There is something about Elsa. She’s different. It could be true. On the other hand she might have made it up.”

  “Like the visions of Pilcher’s Peak,” said Frieda. “She’s going to laugh at us when we get back.”

  The sounds of the horses’ hoofs was soothing as we rocked happily to and fro. I should miss these outings when I left. But it would be wonderful of course to be home with Aunt Patty.

  “There’s the Peak,” said the wagoner, pointing with his whip.

  We all looked. It was impressive from this spot. It looked like a wrinkled old face…brown, creased and malevolent.

  “I wonder if it’s meant to be Pilcher?” said Monique. “And who was Pilcher anyway?”

  “We’ll have to ask Elsa,” I said. “She seems to be a mine of information on such matters.”

  We were in the forest now. The wagon drew up and our driver said: “I’ll wait here. Now you young ladies take that path. It leads straight up to the base of the rock. There’s a big oak tree at the bottom called Pilcher’s Oak.”

  “That’s what we want,” said Monique.

  “Less than half a mile.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll be ready to take you back say in an hour and a half. Orders is that you’re not to be late.”

  “Thank you,” we said and we set off over the uneven ground toward the great rock.

  “There must have been a violent volcanic eruption here,” I commented. “So Pilcher’s was formed and much, much later the oak tree grew. Seeds dropped by a bird, I daresay. Most of them are pines round here. Don’t they smell delicious.”

  We had almost reached the oak growing close to the rock. “This must be it,” said Lydia, throwing herself down and stretching out on the grass. “This smell makes me feel sleepy.”

  “That lovely redolent odor,” I said, sniffing eagerly. “Yes, there is something soporific about it.”

  “What now we’re here?” asked Frieda.

  “Sit down…and wait and see.”

  “I think it’s foolish,” said Frieda.

  “Well, it’s an outing. Somewhere to go. Let’s pretend we are shopping for gloves for my Aunt Patty. I do want to get her some before I leave.”

  “Stop talking about leaving,” said Lydia. “I don’t like it.”

  Frieda yawned.

  “Yes,” I said, “I certainly feel like that too.”

  I stretched myself out on the grass and the others did the same. We lay there, propping up our heads with our hands and gazing up through the branches of the oak tree.

  “I wonder what it was like when they threw people over,” I went on. “Just imagine being taken up to the top, knowing you were going to be thrown over…or perhaps asked to jump. Perhaps some fell on this spot.”

  “You make me feel creepy,” said Lydia.

  “I suggest,” put in Frieda, “that we go back to the wagonette and go into the town after all.”

  “Those little cakes with the colored cream are delicious,” said Monique.

  “Would there be time?” asked Frieda.

  “No,” said Lydia.

  “Be quiet,” I commanded. “Give it a chance.”

  We were all silent and just then he came through the trees.

  He was tall and very fair. I noticed his eyes immediately. They were piercing blue, and there was something unusual about them; they seemed as though they were looking beyond us into places which we could not see…or perhaps I imagined that afterwards. His clothes were dark and that accentuated his fairness. They were elegantly cut but not exactly in the height of fashion. His coat had a velvet collar and silver buttons, and his hat was black, tall and shiny.

  We were all silent as he approached—awestruck, I suppose, devoid for the moment of our Schaffenbrucken polish.

  “Good afternoon,” he said in English. He bowed. Then he went on: “I heard your laughter and I had an irresistible urge to see you.”

  Still we said nothing and he went on: “Tell me, you are from the school, are you not?”

  I said: “Yes, we are.”

  “On an excursion to Pilcher’s Peak?”

  “We were resting before we went back,” I told him, as the others seemed to remain tongue-tied.

  “It’s an interesting spot,” he went on. “Do you object to my talking to you for a moment?”

  “Of course not.” We all spoke together. So the others had recovered from their shock.

  He sat down a little distance from us and surveyed his long legs.

  “You are English,” he said, looking at me.

  “Yes…I and Miss Markham. This is Mademoiselle Delorme and Fräulein Schmidt.”

  “A cosmopolitan group,” he commented. “Yours is the school for the young ladies of Europe. Am I right?”

  “Yes, that is it.”

  “Tell me why did you take this excursion to Pilcher’s Peak today? Is it not rather a summer outing?”

  “We thought we’d like to see it,” I said, “and I probably shan’t have an opportunity again. I’m leaving at the end of the year.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? And the other young ladies?”

  “We shall have another year, I expect,” said Monique.

  “And then you return to France?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are all so young…so merry,” he said. “It was very pleasant to hear your laughter. I was drawn toward it. I felt for a moment that I must join you. I must share your spontaneity.”

  “We didn’t realize that we were so alluring,” I said, and everybody laughed.

  He looked about him. “What a pleasant afternoon! There is a stillness in the air, do you feel it?”

  “Yes, I think I do,” said Lydia.

  He looked up at the sky. “Indian summer,” he said quietly. “You will all go to your various homes for Christmas, will you not?”

  “It is one of the holidays we all go home for. That and the summer. Easter, Whitsun and the rest, well…”

  “The journey is too far,” he finished for me. “And your families will welcome you,” he went on. “They will have balls and banquets for you and you will all marry and live happy ever after, which is the fate which should await all beautiful young ladies.”

  “And doesn’t always…or often,” said Monique.

  “We have a cynic here. Tell me”—his eyes were on me—“do you believe that?”

  “I think life is what you make it.” I was quoting Aunt Patty. “What is intolerable to some is comfort to others. It is the way in which one looks upon it.”

  “They certainly teach you something at that school.”

  “That’s what my aunt always says.”

  “You have no parents.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “No, they died in Africa. My aunt has always looked after me.”

  “She’s a marvelous person,” said Monique. “She runs a school. She’s just about as different from Madame de Guérin as anyone could be. Cordelia is the lucky one. She’s going to work with her aunt and share the school, which will be hers one day. Can you imagine Cordelia as a headmistress!”

  He was smiling directly at me. “I can imagine Cordelia’s being anything she wishes to be. So she is a lady of substance, is she?”

  “If you ask me she is the luckiest of the lot of us,” said Monique.

  He continued to look at me steadily. “Yes,” he said, “I think Cordelia can be very lucky indeed.”

  “Why do you say ‘can be’?” asked Frieda.

  “Because it will depend on her herself. Is she cautious? Does she hesitate or does she grasp opportunities when they are presented to her?”

  The girls looked at each other and at me.

  “I’d say she would,” said Monique.

  “Time will tell,” he replied.

  He had a strange delivery, which was
a little archaic. Perhaps that was because he was speaking English, which might not have been his native tongue, although he was very fluent. I fancied I caught a trace of a German accent.

  “We always have to wait for time to tell us,” said Frieda rather pettishly.

  “What do you wish then, young lady? To take a glimpse into the future?”

  “That would be fun,” said Monique. “There was a fortune-teller in the town. Madame de Guérin put that out of bounds…but I believe some of them went.”

  “It can be very absorbing,” he said.

  “You mean…to look into the future?” That was Monique and he leaned forward and took her hand. She gave a little squeal. “Oh…can you tell the future then?”

  “Tell the future? Who can tell the future? Though sometimes there are visions…”

  We were all subdued now. I felt my heart beating wildly. There was something very extraordinary about this encounter.

  “You, Mademoiselle,” he said, gazing at Monique, “you will laugh through life. You will go back to your family château.” He dropped her hand and closed his eyes. “It is in the heart of the country. There are vineyards surrounding it. The pepper pot towers reach to the sky. Your father is a man who makes arrangements worthy of his family. He is a proud man. Will you marry as he wishes, Mademoiselle?”

  Monique looked a little shaken.

  “I suppose I shall marry Henri…I quite like him really.”

  “And your father would never allow it to be otherwise. And you, Fräulein, are you as docile as your friend?”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Frieda in her matter of fact way. “I sometimes think I shall do what I please and then when I’m home…it’s different.”

  He smiled at her. “You do not deceive yourself and that is a great asset in life. You will always know which way you are going and why—although it is not always the path which you would choose.”

  Then he turned to Lydia. “Ah, Miss,” he said, “what is your fortune?”

  “Heaven knows,” said Lydia. “I imagine my father will be more concerned with my brothers. They’re a good bit older than I and they always think boys are more important.”

  “You will have a good life,” he said.