She stood watching the children’s pleasure for a few moments and then she said quietly to me: “Poor little mite. It’s nice for him to have a companion sometimes.” I realized she was speaking of Julian. “I often think my own little Billy’s got a better time of it than he has for all he’s squire’s son.”

I said Billy looked as though he were a very happy little boy.

“There’s no big fortune waiting for him. But it’s not big fortunes little ‘uns be wanting. It be love … that’s what it be. And our Billy’s got that an’ all. Poor little Master Julian.” Then she froze. “I be talking out of turn. I reckon you won’t want to repeat what I have said.”

“Of course I won’t,” I assured her. “I agree with you.”

I thought, So they are sorry for him! Poor little unloved one! And I felt a great anger against people who allowed their own affairs to overshadow the lives of their children.

I knew from my own experience the lack of parental affection; but I had had Olivia. This poor little boy was alone really—left to the tender mercies of his nanny.

She was a good woman, I was sure, and carried out her duties according to the rules. But I had recognized at once that Julian was a child who needed tenderness and lacked it.

I had never thought much about children before. Now my anger against Paul and Gwennie grew. Gwennie was obsessed by getting value for her money; Paul was equally obsessed by his hatred of the bargain he had made.

I understood them both—Paul taking the easy way out, Gwennie angry because now he had made the bargain he was deeply regretting it. What I could not forgive was what they were denying this innocent child.

Julian was the heir—highly desirable, of course, for he would carry on the name of Landower. They did not appear to think of him as a child born into a strange world with no one but paid servants to guide him.

I became obsessed by Julian. I went often to see him and he began to watch for my visits. It would be noticed soon, I guessed; and I wondered what construction the watchers would put on that.

In the meantime the tension in the house did not decrease. Gwennie seemed to go out of her way to stress what she had done. I could see how Paul tried not to look at her and how his eyes would darken when he did. I thought of a conversation I had had with Jamie. “It jangled on his nerves … first a little bit … and then more and more until one day it snapped.”

Yes, I could see the dangers. I was aware of the warning voices within me. Get away. There will be trouble. Do you want to be involved in it? You should get away … while there’s time.

But still I remained.

I saw Jago frequently. He did me a great deal of good. I could indulge in frivolous, flirtatious repartee with him and we could laugh together. His sunny nature, his casual acceptance of life, were in complete contrast to Paul. Jago would make a joke out of every situation. He pretended to be in love with me in the most light-hearted way. He said I was cruel to repulse his advances to which I retorted that he seemed to endure it very well—in fact to thrive on it. He retorted that he could not fail to thrive in my company.

Sometimes I met him when I rode out. I did not think it was design exactly. If he had met a personable young woman on the way he would have been pleased to dally for a while. That was how it was with Jago— and it suited my mood at the time.

Cousin Mary said: “Yes, certainly he ought to have been the one to marry the Arkwright girl. He would have taken it in his stride and they would have lived happily ever after.”

“She might have caught him in his infidelities,” I suggested, “and that would very probably have marred the connubial bliss.”

“He would have had explanations, I’ve no doubt.”

“Well, it didn’t work out that way.”

“More’s the pity,” said Cousin Mary sadly, and I wondered how much she knew and if she were thinking of me.

As for myself, I had become quite a different person from that one who had dreamed of romantic heroes. I told myself that now I saw men as they really were; and it did not give me a great deal of faith in human nature.

I thought of my mother and her husband and Captain Carmichael; I thought of Jeremy desperately seeking the main chance and when he had achieved it setting about using my sister’s fortune and spending it on someone called Flora Carnaby. And even Paul, who had sold himself in marriage, was now looking at me pleadingly, begging me to share my life with him in secret.

I want to live my life without men, I told myself.

But that was not quite true. I dared not be alone with Paul because I was weak and I was afraid that my passion, my love for him, might betray me, make me throw aside my principles, my independence, my inherent awareness of what was right. I felt he would be weaker than I was in this respect and that it was I who must act decisively.

So I made sure that I saw him only in company and I encouraged this mock flirtation with Jago which could, for a time, restore a certain light-heartedness, and make me laugh with real merriment.

Christmas came and went. Gwennie insisted that the day itself should be celebrated at Landower and we, among many other guests, were invited.

She had followed all the old Cornish customs. She had Christmas bushes hung over the doors. I had never seen them before. They were two wooden hoops fastened into each other at right angles, decorated with evergreens, and called “kissing bushes” because if any man caught a girl under them he was allowed to kiss her. It was rather like the old custom of the mistletoe, of which there was ample hanging from convenient places. The Yule log had been ceremoniously hauled in; the carol singers had come while the guests were assembled at midday; and we sang carols we all knew: “The First Noel,” “The Seven Joys of Mary,” “The Holly and the Ivy.” The voices, a little out of tune, echoed through the old rafters. ” ‘Born is the King of Israel …’” while the punch bowl was brought in and the mixture ladled out. “God rest you merry, gentlemen,” sang the carollers.

Gwennie was beaming.

“Just think,” she said to me, “this was exactly how it must have been years and years ago. I don’t ever regret what it cost to keep this place from tumbling down. No, I don’t regret a penny.”

Jago, who was standing by, winked at me and said: “Just think of all those pretty pennies …”

And I saw Paul’s lips tighten, hating it, and again I remembered Jamie’s words.

The great hall table was groaning under the weight of joints of beef and lamb, geese, and pies of all descriptions.

“The Cornish are great lovers of pies,” said Gwennie from one end of the table. “I think it is our duty to uphold the old customs … at all cost.”

Musicians played in the gallery. I would never forget that fateful moment when Gwennie had seen Jago and me standing there and how she shrieked before grasping the rotten rail and falling.

Gwennie was beside me.

“The musicians are good, don’t you think? They asked a big fee but I thought it was worth while to have the best.”

“Oh yes. They’re very good.”

She looked up at the gallery. “The rails have been well reinforced,” she said. “Fancy letting the place go as they did. I’ve had to have it all strengthened up there. It needed a new rail, and they had to find something old … but not wormeaten … if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said, “you mean not wormeaten.”

“It’s not easy to find. You have to pay through the nose for that sort of thing.”

“A pretty penny, I’m sure.”

I was feeling too annoyed with her to be polite; but she merely agreed, the irony lost on her.

I could understand Paul’s exasperation. I tried to imagine what they must be like together. I was becoming very sorry for him and that was something I must not be. I must keep reminding myself that he had agreed to the bargain, and he must not expect sympathy because he had to pay for what he had acquired.

Cousin Mary had a dinner party on Boxing Day. The Landowers came—among others. Conversation was general and there was no obvious friction between Paul and Gwennie. Jago was bright and amusing— what was called the life and soul of the party; and I had to admit he was a very useful person to have around.

He told us he had a plan for introducing special machinery which might be helpful on the farms of the estate. He was going to London in the New Year to investigate. I said to him, when I had a chance to speak quietly to him, that I was surprised to see him so interested in estate affairs.

“I am enormously interested in this project. Why don’t you pay a visit to your sister? We could travel up together.”

“I am afraid you must go on your own this time.”

“I shall miss you. Travelling won’t be the same without you.”

“I daresay you will contrive to make it interesting nevertheless.”

When the guests had departed Cousin Mary said: “Well, that’s over. I deplore these duty entertainments. I often wonder how things are at Landower. Gwennie must be a trial. And what of Jago? Going up to London to investigate machinery! Female machinery, I shouldn’t wonder. He must have got tired of that woman in Plymouth.”

“Dear Cousin Mary, how cynical you are! Perhaps he really is going to investigate this machinery.”

“I saw the look on his brother’s face when he was talking. I think he had a pretty shrewd idea.”

“At least,” I said, “he knows how to enjoy life.” “He’s the sort of man who will let others carry the burdens.” After I had said goodnight to Cousin Mary, I went to my room and there I brooded on the evening and I thought again that if Cousin Mary would not be so upset, I would start making plans to leave.