I heard a small voice within me saying: ‘You never loved Bastian. You loved only yourself.’
And I knew it was true and I wished that I were like Angelet who never probed her own secret mind as I did.
I went down the old pack-horse track where the flowers on the blackberry bushes were out in abundance, and where we came with our dishes at the end of summer and gathered them so that they could make preserves in the stillroom. I started to gallop past the fields of deep green wheat and I came to the woods—the woods where I had lain with Bastian when he visited us at Trystan Priory. The foxgloves were flowering there. Angelet and I once gathered them and took them into the house, and old Sarah who worked in the kitchens said they were poison flowers and witches knew how to brew a potion from them to make you sleep forever.
I would like to make Carlotta sleep forever.
I was wrong to have come to the woods where there were too many memories. I thought of the last time we had been here together. It was six months ago—in January—and the trees were bare—lacy branches seen against a grey sky. How beautiful they had been; more beautiful, I had said to Bastian, than they were in summer.
‘I’d rather have the leaves to shelter us,’ he had said. ‘It’s dangerous here.’
‘Nonsense,’ I had replied. ‘Who’d come to the woods in winter?’
‘We did.’
It was cold, I remember—the wind was chill; but I said to him: ‘While our love is warm, what matters it?’
And we laughed and were happy and he said: ‘This time next winter we shall announce our betrothal.’ And it was an enchanted afternoon.
When we rode back I pointed out the points of yellow in the jasmine which climbed over one of the cottages we passed.
‘Promise of spring,’ said Bastian. It seemed significant. The future was full of promise for us.
Why did I want to come here to revive memories? Better to have stayed in the house.
Then I saw a man riding towards me, and I felt a sudden quiver of alarm because I was doing what was forbidden—riding out alone. I spurred up my horse and, turning off the road, broke into a canter across the meadow. My alarm intensified, for the man who had been on the road was coming across the meadow in my direction.
There is nothing to fear, I admonished myself. Why should he not come this way?
I seemed to hear my mother’s voice. ‘I never want you girls to go out alone. It is all right if Fennimore or Bastian is with you. But always make sure that there are two grooms at least.’
He had ridden past me and was pulling up his horse. Strangely enough my fear had left me; excitement took its place, for the rider was no ruffian. Far from it. He was elegant in the extreme and a stranger, for we did not often see such gentlemen in the country.
I noticed his hat first because he swept it off and turned to me, waved it in his hand as he bowed his head; it was of black felt, broad-brimmed, and adorned with a beautiful white feather which trailed over the brim. His hair—light brown, almost golden, curled at the tips—fell to his shoulders. We did not wear our hair like that in the country, yet I had heard that it was the latest fashion. Fennimore had laughed at the time and said he would never wear his hair like a girl. But I had to admit that if the face it framed was manly enough the effect was not effeminate. His doublet was black, with wide sleeves caught in at a cuff with lace edges; his breeches were of black material that had a look of satin; and he wore square-toed boots fitting up to his leg to just below his knees. I suppose I noticed his appearance so minutely because I had never seen anyone like him before.
‘Your pardon, mistress,’ he said. ‘I would ask your help. Do you live hereabouts and know the country?’
‘I do,’ I answered.
‘I am looking for Trystan Priory, which I believe is in this neighbourhood.’
‘Then you are fortunate to have met me, for I live there and am returning there now.’
‘Is that truly so, then this is indeed a happy meeting.’
‘If you ride beside me I will take you there,’ I said.
‘That is kind of you.’
Our horses walked side by side as we crossed the meadow to the road.
‘I think you may wish to see my father,’ I said.
‘I have business with Captain Fennimore Landor,’ he answered.
‘He is away at this time.’
‘But I had heard his voyage was ended.’
‘Yes, it has. He is only gone to Plymouth and will be home within a few days.’
‘Ah, that is better news. I shall not be too long delayed.’
‘I dare say it is business concerning the East India Company.’
‘Your assumption is correct.’
‘People often come to see him. But you have come far.’
‘I have come from London. My servants are at an inn. I left them with my baggage and rode out to see if I could find the Priory. You have made my quest easy.’
‘I am pleased. My brother will talk to you. He knows a great deal about the Company.’
‘That’s interesting. May I introduce myself? I am Gervaise Pondersby.’
‘I am Bersaba Landor. I have a twin sister, Angelet. She and my brother will be very pleased to see you.’
I pictured their astonishment when I rode in with this elegant stranger. I was grateful to him, for he had made me forget temporarily the hurt Bastion had inflicted on me.
The Priory came into sight.
‘A charming place,’ said Gervaise Pondersby. ‘So this is the Landor home, is it? And how far from the sea?’
‘Five miles.’
‘I had expected it would be nearer.’
‘Five miles is nothing much,’ I answered. I told him that the house had been built with stones from the ruined priory as we rode up the slight incline and into the courtyard.
We had been seen, and I imagined the consternation that had caused: Bersaba arriving home with a gentleman from London!
I shouted to a groom to take our horses, and when we stepped into the hall Fennimore was already there with Bastian. I would not look at Bastian but spoke to Fennimore.
‘I met this gentleman on the road. He was looking for Trystan Priory. He has business with Father.’
The bow was elegant as he said: ‘Gervaise Pondersby at your service.’
‘Why, Sir Gervaise,’ cried Fennimore, ‘my father has often spoken of you. Welcome to Trystan. Alas, my father is not here at this time.’
‘Your sister told me so. But I believe he is not far from home.’
‘He will be back in a few days. May I present my cousin, Bastian Casvellyn.’
Bastian bowed. I thought: he seems awkward beside this man, and I exulted in the fact.
‘I pray you come into my father’s private parlour. I will send for refreshment.’
‘I will take a little wine and perhaps you can give me more exact information as to when your father will return.’
‘I can send a messenger to Plymouth to tell him you are here,’ said Fennimore. I was rather proud of my brother because he did not seem in the least overawed by the stranger.
As Fennimore led him away I ran upstairs. Bastian ran after me but I was fleeter than he.
‘Bersaba,’ he whispered.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ I hissed over my shoulder.