But he must act with the utmost caution. He had done a very daring thing in bringing her here. He must be careful to show her no special favours. He had been rather reckless during the journey; her charm had disarmed him; he had enjoyed letting people think that they were father and daughter. There must be no breath of scandal at Trevenning. He must have a talk with Caroline. He must ask his daughter to treat Melisande kindly; perhaps he could hint at a tragedy. He began to work out some plausible story; but he rejected that; he must not add to the mystery concerning Melisande.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He felt the physical discomfort which came to him after a long journey; he seemed still to be swaying with the movement of the carriage, and when he closed his eyes he still seemed to see the passing countryside. He kept thinking of her, her sudden laughter, her joy in everything that was new to her, her pity for those who seemed unfortunate. She was a charming girl; if it had been at all possible he would have delighted in claiming her for his daughter. But there was one thing he feared more than anything else: it was that scandal should touch his name. It had always been thus with Trevennings.
When he thought of that he knew he would have been wiser to have taken her straight to Fenella. He should never have forged a link between Trevenning and the Convent Notre Dame Marie; his two daughters should never have met.
Yet, although he regretted his rashness, he was sure that if he could go back in time, he would do exactly as he had already done.
But—he promised himself—no more risks.
Caroline lay in bed thinking of the newcomer. She had not drawn the curtains about her bed. She was uneasy. She had not failed to notice the looks which Fermor had given the girl and she thought she knew the meaning of those looks.
The girl had both beauty and charm; she had that indefinable something which Caroline was sufficiently aware of to know that she herself did not possess it. She herself was pretty; she had a fortune and she was in every way marriageable; yet Fermor had been unable to prevent himself showing his admiration of the girl.
Her father had written of Melisande St. Martin as though she were a woman of forty, prim, a woman for whom they should be sorry. How could they be sorry for a girl such as Mademoiselle St. Martin?
Already she had seemed to cast knowledgeable looks at Fermor, had revelled in his admiration; already Caroline saw her as a coquettish trouble-maker who would scheme with all her might to make her position firmer. She was glad that Fermor would soon be leaving Cornwall. He had stayed—with his aunt Miss Tabitha Holland as chaperone—until her father returned, to console her because she was so distressed at the loss of her mother. He had consoled her, and she had been happy until her father had arrived, for Fermor had been tender rather than ardent; it was as though he had welcomed the constant company of his aunt. That seemed strange when she thought of the looks she had seen him cast at Peg and Bet, the two maids, and had remembered that long-ago scene with the parlourmaid. She had rejoiced in his restraint; she looked upon it as a sign of the respect he had for her.
He had said however that he did not see why they should wait a whole year. He had declared he would speak to her father and his people. "Perhaps we could have a quieter wedding if that would offend conventions less." He was impatient of conventions; he was by nature headstrong and ardent; that was probably why he enchanted her. She had felt temporarily sure of him until that moment when she had seen him look at the stranger and delight in her.
But he will soon be gone, she assured herself. And who knows, perhaps I can find some means of sending her away before he returns.
In the servants' hall Meaker sat at the head of the table. Supper, when they all gathered together to exchange gossip and discuss affairs of the household, was the high-light of their days. Mrs. Soady, the cook, could be relied upon to provide a loaded table; there were pies and pasties to keep up their strength; and it was Mrs. Soady's delight never to let them know what was beneath the piecrust. Sometimes it would be a taddage pie made of delicious sucking pig; at others a squab pie with layers of apple, bacon, onions and mutton with a squab at the bottom of the dish. There would be giblet pies and lammy pies, tatty pies and herby pies. There would be no secret about the popular pasty nor that favourite star-gazy pie, for in the first place there was no disguising the shape of the pasty, and the pilchards' heads peeping out of the pastry betrayed the star-gazy for what it was. No table of Mrs. Soady's was complete without a dish of cream with which Mrs. Soady liked to see all her pastry anointed; and there was always plenty of mead and cider with which to wash down the food. And with Mr. Meaker at one end of the table and Mrs. Soady at the other, they were a happy family in the servants' hall at Trevenning.
There was one notable absentee that night, but Wenna did not always join the others at table. When Lady Trevenning had been alive and she was always waiting on her ladyship, Wenna would have her meals at odd moments. Now she had continued the practice in the service of Miss Caroline. Wenna was a specially favoured servant.
On this day there was no talk of affairs outside the house. Mrs. Soady did not, as she often did, talk of her sister, the wise woman, and the members of her wonderful family. Mrs. Soady belonged to a 'pellar' family, and in such families supernatural power was handed down through generation after generation from an ancestor who had assisted a mermaid back to the sea. Mrs. Soady's sister, as well as being a member of such a family was a seventh child and a footling into the bargain (she had been born feet first) and everyone at the table had been reminded that being born feet first was an indication of great powers to come; so the Soady family were generally one of the favourite topics.
Mr. Meaker could not allow his family to be completely overshadowed. They were not 'pellars', but they were invalids and had suffered from all the most terrible diseases known to man. Mr. Meaker had not been so long at Trevenning as some of the servants; he had served other masters, and, according to his accounts, the houses in which he had served were not only much grander than Trevenning, but all the inhabitants had been martyrs to their various ailments. Such conversations, sponsored by Mrs. Soady and augmented by Mr. Meaker, went down very
well with 'fair-maids' and pasties or one of Mrs. Soady's mystery pies.
But to-night, of course, there was no talk but of Miss Caroline's new companion.
Peg, who had shown her to her bedroom, was looked to for special information because she had actually helped the newcomer to unpack her bag. The trouble with Peg was that being rather silly she kept choking with laughter and had to be slapped on the back or given water or mead to drink in order that a threatened attack of hysteria might be counteracted. Mr. Meaker had warned her before about hiccups. A member of one of his families had started an attack just like Peg's, and it had lasted six weeks before it killed him.
"Now you, Peg," said Mrs. Soady with a trace of irritability, "don't 'ee be so soft, don't! And give over giggling. Now what was there in the bag?"
"Oh, not much, Mrs. Soady . . . but what she had was terrible queer. And she had a black frock and a green bonnet . . . green, I tell'ee!"