I introduced her to Miss Bray as we had arranged. I was very eager to know what Miss Bray thought of her. But my dear governess is already living in the future and I can see that she is ready to accept Miss Gilmour's own view of herself ... just as my father appears to be.
I wish that I did not feel uneasy and I am glad I started writing in my journal because I can now capture what I actually feel at the time when it is happening. Perhaps I shall be laughing at my foolishness in a little while. I hope so. But I want to put on record that I felt it.
October 10th
It is some time since I wrote in my journal. That is because I have felt disinclined to do so. I have been very sad since Miss Bray's wedding. Why is it that one only appreciates people when one has lost them. I went to her wedding. It was a very happy affair and everyone—except myself—thinks it is an ideal outcome—so it may be for Miss Bray and her Reverend gentleman, but I can hardly say it is for me.
This is an entirely selfish point of view, I know, and I must be happy for Miss Bray—Mrs. Eggerton now. But how difficult it is to be happy for others when their happiness means one's own despair. Well, perhaps despair is too strong a word. I do write the most extraordinary things in this journal. It seems to have an odd effect on me. It is almost as though I am talking to myself. Perhaps that is the purpose of journals. That is why they are such a private matter and so useful in recording life as it is really lived and not suffused with a rosy glow or abject gloom—however one would want to represent the event after it has faded a little from the mind.
And Miss Gilmour? What is it about her? I do not know. She does not insist that I work hard. She is interesting. She is clever, knowledgeable. But she is not like a governess.
What makes me feel rather wistful is that there is no one in whom I can confide. My brother Charles was always at what they call the "Shop" in Great Stanton and was deeply involved in the business there. He went away some months ago on an expedition to some of the uncharted places of the Earth. I sometimes wish I were a man so that I could share in such adventures.
But I want to think about Miss Gilmour so I must write about her. I want to know about her and now that I am writing more in my journal I feel I am getting to know more about myself as well as other people. I have always been interested in people, always wanted to know about them. Usually one can draw them out. I can at any rate. I believe I have a special gift for it. But not with Miss Gilmour. I always feel that she has secrets. I imagine I can see secrets in her eyes. They are such strange eyes. They glitter. They are a deep shade of blue and her eyebrows and lashes are very black—so is her hair. I fancy she blackens her brows and lashes because sometimes they seem darker than others.
My father asked her to take a glass of sherry with him yesterday.
"He wants to hear of your progress," Miss Gilmour told me. "What am I going to say?" She looked at me rather archly. It did not fit her very well and I felt another of those odd twinges of uneasiness.
I said: "You must say what you think."
"I shall tell him what a wonderful pupil you are and that you make my task easy and me happy. How is that?"
"I don't believe it is true," I said.
"I want to make him happy. I want to make you happy. You wouldn't want me to say you were an idle pupil, would you?"
"No, because that wouldn't be true. But I do not believe for one moment that you think I am wonderful."
"You really are quite a clever little thing," she said. "There is no mistake about that."
Her face hardened a little. She was always a trifle cross when I did not respond to her offers of friendship.
October 14th
What is making me write in my journal tonight is something that happened this afternoon.
I am supposed to take someone with me when I go riding, but it is a rule which I am beginning to ignore more and more. Really! I am past sixteen. I shall be seventeen soon, well, in about seven months' time, and I really do think that a girl of my age should have a little freedom.
The stable people never mention it when I go alone and I always saddle my own horse in case there should be a fuss; so they are not involved.
Miss Gilmour rides with me now and then, but she is not one of those people who ride for pleasure. When she rides it is to get somewhere. She never notices the scenery as Miss Bray used to; and Miss Bray had a lot of funny stories to tell about animals and plants and people. Miss Gilmour has none of those. She is never interested in travelling—only in arriving. She is no fun to be with.
This afternoon I rode out alone and I had gone rather farther than usual, and as I came past the Royal Oak I saw one of our horses—the one Miss Gilmour usually rides—close to the block outside the inn.
There was another horse there. I wondered if I had been mistaken and was overcome with curiosity and eager to prove whether or not I had been.
I alighted and tethered my horse with the others and went into the inn.
No, I had not been mistaken. There was Miss Gilmour, sitting at one of the tables, a tankard before her, talking to a man. He was rather good-looking and his dark eyes were very noticeable because of his white wig—well powdered and fashionable. His long-tailed coat and broad hat were equally stylish.
Miss Gilmour looked strikingly handsome, wearing a dress which could be suitable either for riding or walking. It was very full skirted with a plain tightly fitted bodice and a frothy white cravat. On her head was a black top hat with a feather in it of the same shade of dark blue as her dress. I had never seen anyone look less like a governess. Nor had I seen anyone so overcome by surprise as when she lifted her eyes and saw me.
In fact I would say it was a great shock to her.
She half rose and said in a voice I have never heard her use before: "Ann Alice."
"Hello," I replied. "I was passing and I saw your horse outside. I thought I recognized him, and I came to see if I was right."
She recovered her calm very quickly. "Well, what a pleasant surprise! I came into the inn for refreshment and who should I find but an old friend of my family."
The man had risen. He was about Miss Gilmour's age—late twenties, I imagined. He bowed low.
"Oh yes," said Miss Gilmour. "I'm forgetting my manners. This is
Mr. Desmond Featherstone. Mr. Featherstone, Miss Ann Alice Mallory, my dear little pupil." She turned to me. "Are you alone?" she asked quickly.
"Yes." I replied rather defiantly. "I saw no reason why I shouldn't ..."
"No reason at all," she said in a most ungoverness-like manner.
It was as though we were all conspirators.
"Now Miss Mallory is here she might like a little refreshment." suggested Mr. Featherstone.
'Would you?" asked Miss Gilmour.
"Cider would be very welcome."
Mr. Featherstone called to one of the serving maids, a rather pretty girl in a cross-over laced bodice and a white mob cap.
Mr. Featherstone said. "Cider for the young lady, please."
The girl smiled at Mr. Featherstone in a rather special way as though she was delighted to serve him. I was beginning to notice those little signs which passed between members of opposite sexes.
Mr. Featherstone turned his attention to me. His glittering dark eyes seemed to be trying to penetrate my thoughts.
After the first few seconds Miss Gilmour had recovered her equilibrium. She said again: "This is a surprise. First Mr. Featherstone, and then Ann Alice . .. quite a little party."
She seemed so strongly to be stressing the fact that she had met Mr. Featherstone by chance that I wondered whether it was not so, and they had met by arrangement. She made the mistake a lot of people make of regarding me as a simple child when I was fast growing up and thinking like an adult quite often. And something was telling me that the attraction which I sometimes noticed between men and women was present between Mr. Featherstone and Miss Gilmour.