I despised him, of course, for selling himself to the highest bidder. But wasn’t I jumping to conclusions? Gwennie Arkwright might be a fascinating siren. I did not think so. I had met her on two occasions— once in the inn with Jago and once in the gallery when I had helped to frighten her. I was pulled up sharply at the thought of that. She had more reason to dislike me than I had to feel contempt for her husband.
I was being foolish again. I had allowed my dreams to take possession of reality once more.
Cousin Mary came in while I was having breakfast.
“Is that all you’re having—coffee and toast!” she cried.
I said I was not very hungry.
“You’re still feeling the effects of that travelling. Have an easy day. What would you like to do? You tell me. Are you still keen on riding? Of course you must be.”
“Yes, very. But I didn’t have much chance in France. I only rode once.”
“That was when you had your fall.”
“Yes. It was when …”
“When Paul Landower visited you.”
“He hired the horses and we went into the mountains.”
“We haven’t any mountains here. Only Brown Willy, and he won’t match up to the Alpes Maritimes.”
I laughed. It was good to be with her. She was so matter-of-fact, so full of normality. She was no dreamer.
I said impulsively: “It’s good to be with you, Cousin Mary.”
“I was hoping you’d feel that. Caroline, I want to talk to you very seriously.”
“What, now?”
“No time like the present. Have you thought about doing anything—”
“You mean … earning a living?”
She nodded. “I know how you’re placed. I got it all from Imogen. My cousin left you nothing, but you have a little from your maternal grandfather.”
“Fifty pounds a year.”
“Not exactly affluence.”
“No. I have been thinking a great deal. But then I was with my mother and it seemed I might have to stay. Alphonse very kindly offered me a home with them but … Olivia too.”
“If I know anything about you you’re a young woman who wants her independence, are you not? Of course you are. Therefore I expect you will want to do something.”
“I could be a governess, I suppose. A companion to someone.”
“Ugh!” said Cousin Mary.
“I quite agree.”
“Definitely unsuitable. Of course it is.”
“When I passed Jamie McGill’s lodge I thought of having a little cottage and keeping bees. Can one make money by selling honey?”
“Very little, I imagine. Oh no, Caroline, that’s not for you. You say you’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking, too.”
“About me?”
“Yes, about you. Now, I’m beginning to feel my age a bit. Not so spry as I used to be. A touch of what they call ‘the screws’ meaning the old rheumatics in the joints. It slows you down a bit. I’ve thought of asking you many times … but it seemed you’d marry, which I suppose would have been the best thing for you if it had been the right man.”
“Why, Cousin Mary, you follow the general trend of thinking. The best thing a woman can do is pander to the needs of some man. Why shouldn’t she keep her independence? You have done so … very successfully.”
She looked at me sharply. She said: “Don’t brood on that defaulter. Congratulate yourself rather. There are men and men. I know very well that a woman wants to choose very carefully and it often happens that she makes the wrong choice. I agree with you that it’s better never to marry than to marry the wrong one. But if you could find that paragon of a man and have children of your own … well, that’s about the best thing, I reckon. But don’t set too great a store on it. The world’s full of good things, and independence and freedom to be yourself is one of them. And in marriage you have to give up that to a certain extent. Make the most of what you’ve got. That’s what I’ve always done and it hasn’t turned out too badly. Now listen to what I have to say. I want you to help me. I want you to learn about the estate. There’s a great deal to do. There are all the tenants to look after. Jim Burrows is a good manager, but it’s the landowners who set the pace. I’ve always taken a personal interest. That’s what was wrong at Landower … until now. I’d like you to learn about things, get to know the tenants, to write letters for me … and generally learn all about it. I’ll pay you a salary.”
“Oh no, Cousin Mary. Certainly not.”
“Oh yes. It has to be on a business footing. Just as if I were employing you. But I shouldn’t let it be known just yet that I was doing so. People are so inquisitive … they talk too much. You’d find it interesting. You’d earn some money. It would be more profitable than keeping bees, I assure you. Believe me, you’d find it very interesting. Now what’s it to be?”
“I-I’m overwhelmed, Cousin Mary. I think you’re doing this to help me.”
“I’m doing it to help myself. I can tell you / want help … but not from an outsider. I think you’re cut out for the job. So that’s settled.”
“You are so good to me.”
“What nonsense! I’m good to myself. You and I are two sensible women, are we not? Of course we are. I can’t stand any other sort.”
“I had thought that I shouldn’t stay here … that I ought …”
“Give it a chance,” she said. “I shall never forget your woebegone little face when we said goodbye last time. I said to myself ‘There’s one who’s got a feel for this place.’ And that’s what it takes. It will be a great relief for me to have you with me.”
“Well, I don’t want to be paid.”
“Now I’m beginning to believe you’re not so sensible as I thought after all. Didn’t someone say the labourer was worthy of his hire? You’ll be paid, Caroline Tressidor, and no nonsense about that. Why is it people always get on their high horse when it’s a question of money? What’s wrong with money? It’s necessary. We can’t go back to bartering goods, can we? Of course we can’t. You shall be paid. Not excessively, I promise you. Just what I would pay someone I called in to give me a hand. And with that, and what you’ve got, you’ll be an independent young lady. And there are no contracts or anything like that. You come and go as you please.”
I felt the tears coming to my eyes. It was strange that I, who had hardly shed a tear over Jeremy’s perfidy and when confronted with the avarice of Paul, now wanted to weep for the goodness of Cousin Mary.
I said rather tremulously: “When do I start?”
“There’s no time like the present,” said Cousin Mary. “Get into your riding things and I’ll take you round and show you something of the estate this morning.”
Jamie McGill was in his garden as we rode out and he came to greet us.
“Lovely morning, Jamie,” said Cousin Mary.
“Aye, Miss Tressidor, Miss Caroline. It’s a fine morning.”
“Bees all happy?”
“That they are. They’re glad Miss Caroline is back.”
“It’s very nice of them to be so welcoming,” I said.
“Bees know,” he told me gravely.
“There you are!” said Cousin Mary. “If the bees approve of you, you’re the right sort. That’s so, is it not, Jamie? Of course it is.”
He stood with his cap in his hand while the light breeze ruffled his sandy hair.