It must have been about seven o’clock. I was on the way to the schoolroom where we had our meals with Miss Bell—we always partook of bread and butter and a glass of milk before retiring—when to my horror I came face to face with my father. I almost ran into him and pulled up sharply as he loomed up before me.
“Oh,” he said. “Caroline.” As though he had to give a little thought to the matter before he could remember my name.
“Good evening, Papa,” I said.
“You seem in a great hurry.”
“Oh no, Papa.”
“You saw the procession yesterday?”
“Oh yes, Papa.”
“What did you think of it?”
“It was wonderful.”
“It is something for you to remember as long as you live.”
“Oh yes, Papa.”
“Tell me,” he said, “what most impressed you … of everything you saw?”
I was nervous as always in his presence and when I was nervous I said the first thing which came into my head. What had impressed me most? The Queen? The Crown Prince of Germany? The Kings of Europe? The bands? The truth was that it was that poor horse which had run amok, and before I had realized it I had blurted out: “It was the mad horse.”
“What?”
“The er—the accident.”
“What accident?”
I bit my lip and hesitated. I was remembering that my mother had implied that it would be better not to talk of it. But I had gone too far to retract.
“The mad horse?” he was repeating. “What accident?”
There was nothing for it but to explain. “It was that horse which ran wild. It hurt a lot of people.”
“But you were nowhere near it. That happened in Waterloo Place.”
I flushed and hung my head.
“So you were in Waterloo Place,” he said. “That was not as I thought.” He went on murmuring: “Waterloo Place. I see … I think I see.” He looked different somehow. His face had turned very pale and his eyes glittered oddly. I should have thought he looked bewildered and a little frightened, but I dismissed the thought; he could never be that.
He turned away and left me standing there.
I went to the schoolroom. I had done something terrible, I knew.
I was beginning to understand. The manner in which we had gone there in the first place when we thought we were going somewhere else … it was significant, the way Captain Carmichael had been expecting us, the looks he and my mother exchanged …
What did it mean? I knew the answer somewhere at the back of my mind. There are things the young know … instinctively.
And I had betrayed them.
I could not speak of it. I drank my milk and nibbled my bread and butter without noticing what I was doing.
“Caroline is absent-minded tonight,” said Miss Bell. “I know. She is thinking of all she saw yesterday.”
How right she was!
I said I had a headache and escaped to my room. Miss Bell usually read with us, each taking turns for a page—for half an hour after supper. She thought it was not good for us to go to bed immediately after taking food, however light.
I thought I would get into bed and pretend to be asleep when Olivia came up, so that I should not have to talk to her. It was no use sharing suspicions with her. She would refuse to consider them—as she always did everything that was not pleasant.
I had taken off my dress and put on my dressing gown. I was about to plait my hair when the door opened and to my dismay Papa came in.
He looked quite unlike himself. He was very angry and he still wore that rather bewildered look. He seemed sad too.
He said: “I want a word with you, Caroline.”
I waited.
“You went to Waterloo Place, did you not?”
I hesitated and he went on: “You need not fear to betray anything. I know. Your mother has told me.”
I was obviously relieved.
He continued: “It was decided on the spur of the moment that you would get a better view from Waterloo Place. I don’t agree with that. You would have been nearer at either of the others which had been offered. But you went to Waterloo Place and were entertained by Captain Carmichael. That’s so, is it not?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Did you not wonder why the plans had been changed so abruptly?”
“Well, yes … but Mama said it would be better at Waterloo Place.”
“And Captain Carmichael was prepared for you, he provided luncheon.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“I see.”
He was staring at me. “What is that you are wearing round your neck?”
I touched it nervously. “It’s a locket, Papa.”
“A locket! And why are you wearing it?”
“Well, I always wear it, not so that it can be seen.”
“Oh? In secret? And why pray? Tell me.”
“Well … because I like wearing it and … it shouldn’t be seen.”
“Should not be seen? Why not?”
“Miss Bell says I am too young to wear jewellery.”
“So you have decided to defy Miss Bell?”
“Well, not really … but …”
“Please speak the truth, Caroline.”
“Well er—yes.”
“How did you come by the locket?”
I was unprepared for the shock my answer gave him.
“It was a present from Captain Carmichael.”
“He gave it to you yesterday?”
“No. In the country.”
“In the country. When was that?”
“When he called.”
“So he called, did he, when you were in the country?”
He had snapped open the locket and was staring at the picture there. His face had turned very pale and his lips twitched; his eyes were like a snake’s and they were fixed on me.
“So Captain Carmichael made a habit of calling on you when you were in the country.”
“Not on me … on …”
“On your mother?”
“Not a habit. He came once.”
“Oh, he came once, when your mother was there. And how long was his visit?”
“He stayed two nights.”
“I see.” He closed his eyes suddenly as though he could not bear to look at me nor at the locket which he still held in his hand. Then I heard him murmur: “My God.” He looked at me with something like contempt and, still holding the locket, he strode out of the room.
I spent a sleepless night, and I did not want to get up in the morning because I knew there was going to be trouble and that I had, in a way, created it.
There was a quietness in the house—a brooding menace, a herald of disaster to come. I wondered if Olivia sensed it. She gave no sign of doing so. Perhaps it was due to my guilty conscience.
Aunt Imogen called with her husband, Sir Harold Carey, and they were closeted with Papa for a long time. I did not see Mama, but I heard from one of the servants that Everton had said she was confined to her bed with a sick headache.
The day wore on. The brougham did not come to take Papa to the bank. Mama remained in her room; and Aunt Imogen and her husband stayed to luncheon and after.
I was more alert even than usual, for I felt it was imperative for me to know what was going on, and my efforts were rewarded in some measure. I secreted myself in the small room next to the little parlour which led off from the hall and where Papa was with the Careys. It was a cubbyhole really in which was a sink and a tap; flowers were put into pots and arranged by the servants there. I had taken a vase of roses and could pretend to be arranging them if I were caught. I could not hear all the conversation, but I did catch some of it.