It was all rather mysterious. I kept hearing words like scandalous, disgraceful and: “There must be no scandal. Your career, Robert …” and then mumbles.
I heard my own name mentioned.
“She should go away,” said Aunt Imogen emphatically. “A constant reminder … You owe yourself that, Robert. Too painful for you"
“It must not seem …”
I could not hear what it must not seem.
“That would be too much … It would provoke Heaven knows what … There’s Cousin Mary, of course … Why shouldn’t she? It’s time she did something for the family. It would give us a breathing space … time to make some plan … to work out what would be best …”
“Would she?” That was my father.
“She might. She is rather … odd. You know Mary. She feels no remorse … Probably has forgotten all the upset she’s caused. It’s an idea, Robert. And I do really think she should go away … I’m sure that’s best. Shall I get in touch with her … Perhaps better coming from me. I’ll explain the need … the urgent need …”
What the urgent need was I could not discover; and I could not stay fiddling with a vase of roses any longer.
The days dragged on and the sombre atmosphere prevailed throughout the house. I did not see either my father nor my mother. All the servants knew that something unusual was going on.
I caught Rosie Rundall alone in the dining room and I asked her what was happening.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Looks like your Mama has been too friendly with Captain Carmichael and your Papa don’t like it much. Can’t say I blame her.”
“Rosie, why are they blaming me?”
“Are they?”
“I was in the flower room and I heard them say I should go away.”
“No, not you, love. I expect that they meant your Mama. That’s who they meant.” She shrugged her shoulders. “This will blow over, I reckon. Such things happen in the highest circles, believe me. Nothing to do with you … so you stop worrying.”
At first I thought she must be right and then one morning Miss Bell came into the schoolroom, where we were waiting to begin our lessons and said: “Your mother has gone away for a rest cure.”
“Gone where?” I asked.
“Abroad, I think.”
“She didn’t say goodbye.”
“I expect she was very busy and she did have to leave in rather a hurry. Doctor’s orders.” Miss Bell looked worried. Then she said: “Your father has told me that he puts great trust in me.”
It was all very strange.
Miss Bell cleared her throat. “You and I are going to make a journey, Caroline,” she said.
“A journey?”
“Yes, by train. I am going to take you to Cornwall to stay with your father’s cousin.”
“Cousin Mary! The harpy!”
“What?”
“Oh nothing. Why, Miss Bell?”
“It has been decided.” * “And Olivia?”
“No. Olivia will not accompany you. I shall travel with you to Cornwall, stay a night at Tressidor Manor, and then return to London.”
“But … why?”
“It is just a visit. You will come back to us in due course.”
“But I don’t understand.”
Miss Bell looked at me quizzically, as though she might not understand either—and yet on the other hand she might.
There was a reason for this. Possibilities flitted into my mind like will-o’-the wisps on misty swamps. None of them was quite tangible enough to offer me an explanation which I could accept.
THE GHOSTS IN THE GALLERY
Sitting in the first-class carriage opposite Miss Bell I felt that what was happening to me was quite unreal and that I should soon wake up and find I had been dreaming.
Everything had come about so quickly. It had been on a Monday when Miss Bell had told me that I was going away, and this was only Friday and here I was on my journey.
I was excited naturally. My temperament made it impossible for me not to be. I was a little scared. All I knew was that I was going to stay with Cousin Mary, who was kindly allowing me to visit her. The duration of the visit had not been mentioned and I felt that was ominous. In spite of my craving to experience new ways of life I felt a sudden longing for the old familiar things. I was surprised to discover that I did not want to leave Olivia, and that had she been coming with me my spirits would have been considerably lightened.
She was going to miss me even as I missed her. She had looked quite desolate when I had said goodbye.
She could not understand why I should be going—and to Cousin Mary of all people. Cousin Mary was an ogre, a wicked woman who had done something dreadful to Papa. Why should I be going to her?
Pervading all my emotions was a terrible sense of guilt. I knew in my heart that I had brought about this terrible calamity. I had betrayed my mother; I had told that which should have been kept secret. Papa should never have known that we had been to Waterloo Place on Jubilee Day; and in addition to telling him that, I had carelessly allowed him to see the locket.
He was annoyed about my mother’s friendship with Captain Carmichael and I had betrayed it; and it seemed that, as a punishment, I was being sent to Cousin Mary.
I wanted so much to talk of it, but Miss Bell was uncommunicative. She sat opposite me, her hands folded in her lap. She had seen the luggage deposited in the guard’s van. One of the menservants had come with us to the station and looked after it, under the supervision of Miss Bell, of course, and all we had with us in the carriage was our hand luggage safely deposited in the rack above. I felt a rush of affection for Miss Bell, for I should be losing her soon. Her duty was merely to take me to Cousin Mary and then return. I should miss her well-meaning, authoritative manner at which I had often laughed with Olivia and which I knew, because of an absence from any other quarter, had brought serenity and security into my life.
Occasionally I caught a glimpse of compassion in her eyes when they rested on me. She was sorry for me and that made me sorry for myself. I was angry. I knew that married ladies should not have romantic friendships with dashing cavalry officers; they should not meet them secretly. Yet knowing this, I had betrayed my mother. If only I had not talked to my father! But what else could I have done? Could I have lied? Surely that would not have been right. And he had come upon me so suddenly when I was in my dressing gown and had not had the time to hide my locket.
It was no use going over it. It had happened and because of it my life had been disrupted. Now I was snatched from my home, from my sister, from my parents … well, perhaps that did not matter so much as I saw so little of Mama and far too much—for my comfort—of Papa. But everything was going to be new now, and there is always something alarming about the unknown.
If only I knew everything. I was too old to be kept in the dark; at the same time they considered me not old enough to know the whole truth.
Miss Bell was talking brightly about the countryside through which we were passing.
“This,” I said with a touch of irony, “will be a geography lesson with a touch of botany thrown in.”
“It is all very interesting,” said Miss Bell severely.
We had pulled up at a station and two women came into the compartment—a mother and a daughter, I guessed. They were pleasant travelling companions and when we lapsed into easy conversation they told us that they were going as far as Plymouth and that they made the journey once a year when they visited relatives.
We chatted comfortably and Miss Bell brought out the luncheon basket which Mrs. Terras, the cook, had packed for us.
“You will excuse us,” she said to the ladies. “We left early and we have a long journey ahead.”