The New Year had come. We had had the southwest gales, which had been fierce that year. Several trees had been blown down; but now the wind had changed to the north. The sky was bleak with snow clouds and the wind seemed to find its way into the house itself, and even the great fires could not keep it warm. We shivered.

I had a letter from Olivia which disturbed me. There was a hint of uneasiness in it and I kept thinking of what Rosie had told me.

“Dear Caroline,

“I think about you all the time. I loved your account of Christmas and the carol singers and all that wassailing. It must have been very amusing. I daresay Jago Landower made it all very merry. What a delightful young man he is!

“I have some news for you. I am going to have another baby. It is very soon … too soon perhaps … but I am very excited about it. Livia is well and getting plump. She is very bright. I wish you could see her.

“Caroline, I do wish you’d come. It’s wonderful to get your letters but it is not the same, is it? I want to talk to you. There are so many things one can only say. It isn’t the same writing them down.

“Please come, Caroline. I have a feeling that I must see you. It’s just that I miss you very much. Miss Bell is good, but no one can talk to Miss Bell. You understand that. It’s you I want to talk to.

“The baby is due in June. Yes, I know it will be only a year since Livia was born. That is a bit soon. And being in this condition does cut one off from people. You know what I mean.

“Please, Caroline, do come.

“Go on writing to me and I shall hope in your next letter you will tell me you are coming.

“Your loving sister who needs you, “Olivia.”

I read and reread that letter. It meant something. It was a cry for help.

“What’s wrong, Caroline?” asked Cousin Mary.

“Wrong?”

“You’re withdrawn, thoughtful. Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

It was impossible to keep anything from Cousin Mary. “It’s a letter from Olivia. I don’t know what it is … but it seems like a cry for help.”

“Help … help from what?”

“I don’t know. She’s going to have a baby in June.”

“In June? How old is the other one? Not a year yet. It’s too soon.”

“Yes, that’s what I think. She’s frightened. I sense it.”

“It can be something of an ordeal.”

“She was delighted when she was going to have Livia.”

“I should imagine it is a procedure which it is not convenient to repeat too often.”

“Yes … but I think it is more than inconvenience. I think she’s frightened.”

“Would you like to show me the letter?”

I did, and she said: “I see what you mean. She’s not very explicit, is she?”

“No, but in view of what Rosie told me …”

“I see. You think he may be playing ducks and drakes with the money?”

“Or perhaps … what would hurt her more … she knows he has someone else.”

“Poor child! I suppose you want to go to her.”

“I believe I should … just for a short visit to satisfy myself.”

“I should wait until the spell of bad weather is over.”

“I’ll write to her at once and tell her I’ll come … perhaps at the beginning of March. The days will be longer then and March can be mild.”

” ‘The March winds do blow and we shall have snow …’ “

“How often have you had snow here?”

“Once in ten years. But you’re leaving balmy Cornwall, you know.”

“I’m not going to the north of Scotland. I think I’d chance the weather in March.”

“You might have travelled with Jago Landower who, I believe, is on one of his machinery inspections.”

We laughed. I was glad she had taken the prospect of my visit to London with equanimity. She did not want me to go, but she sensed the appeal in Olivia’s letter.

I wrote to Olivia at once and said I was planning a visit for the beginning of March. She wrote back enthusiastically. She was so delighted.

“I feel better already,” she wrote.

Oh dear, I thought, then she had been feeling bad before.

February had come and the cold weather was still with us. I found it stimulating riding round the estate. Sometimes Cousin Mary came with me.

It was the middle of February. In two weeks I was due to set out for London. That morning Cousin Mary said she would come with me. She wanted to go out to the Minnows’ farm. There was trouble with the roof. She would get Jim Burrows to meet us there.

We were riding along past the fields and Cousin Mary was discussing the progress of the wheat and barley. The roads were rather treacherous. There had been ice on them in the early morning, but a thaw had set in and the ice in some places was only half melted.

I did not understand exactly how it happened until later. Her horse slipped and she was jolted forward. She was an excellent horsewoman and the incident would have been hardly worthy of mention, but for some reason the horse took fright and started to bolt.

I stared after her in dismay, but she had him under control. I expected her to pull up suddenly and I followed. Then I saw the tree lying across the road. It must have been brought down in the recent gales. The horse was galloping wildly, head up and … there was the tree. I saw Cousin Mary thrown high in the air and then fall. The horse was rushing on.

I felt sick with fear. I dismounted and ran to her. She was lying still, her hat beside her.

“Cousin Mary,” I cried helplessly. “Oh … Cousin Mary, are you hurt?”

It was a stupid thing to say, but I was frantic. What could I do? I could not move her. She was obviously not aware of me.

I must get help. There was nothing I could do by myself. Trembling, I mounted my horse and galloped along the road. I was some way from the Manor and was greatly relieved to see two riders in the distance. It was Paul and his manager.

I cried: “There’s been an accident. My cousin … She’s lying … there, in the road.” I pointed wildly back the way I had come.

“It’s that tree,” said Paul. “It should have been moved yesterday.” He turned to the man beside him. “Go and get the doctor right away. I’ll go with Miss Tressidor.”

My relief in finding him was overcome by a terrible fear that Cousin Mary might be dead.

Paul was wonderful. He took complete charge. He knelt beside her. Her face was like a piece of parchment, her eyes shut. I had never seen her look like that before. I kept thinking, She’s dead. Cousin Mary is dead.

“She’s breathing,” said Paul. “Landower is nearer than Tressidor. They’ll bring a stretcher, but we shouldn’t move her until the doctor has seen her.”

“It happened so suddenly. We were laughing and talking and then … the horse bolted. Where is he? He just went off.”

“He’ll probably return to your stables. Don’t worry about him now. There’s little we can do to help. I’d be afraid to touch her. Something may be badly broken. Perhaps I could put something under her head.”

He took off his coat and rolled it up.

I closed my eyes and knelt beside Cousin Mary. I was praying: “Don’t take her away from me …”

I realized all she meant to me and how she had taken me in and given me a new life.

It seemed hours that we stayed there on that road, but there was a little comfort for me because Paul was there.

We took her to Landower, as it was nearer than Tressidor. When the doctor had made a cursory examination, they brought a stretcher and she was carried with the utmost care.

She was badly injured, but she was not dead. I clung to that fact. A room was made ready for her and another for me, as I wanted to stay with her. She was unconscious for two days and even then we did not know the extent of her injuries. Both legs were broken and there was a hint that she might have injured her spine; there was only one thing I could be thankful for: she was still alive.

The next few days seemed unreal to me … like something out of a nightmare fantasy. I was aware of people round me. Gwennie was determined to do everything she could for us—and I was grateful for that. I thought fleetingly that adversity brought out the best in people. Paul was there; he represented strength to me—just as he had come to me on the road when I needed help; he was there now and I felt that I should have the courage to face whatever had to be if he were there.

I scarcely slept; I did not notice the passing of the days. I was constantly at Cousin Mary’s bedside, for that seemed to comfort her. She wafted in and out of consciousness and on those occasions when she was aware, I wanted her to know that I was beside her.

Paul was often with me. He held my hand and whispered words of comfort, and yet at the same time he did not attempt to hide the truth concerning the gravity of Cousin Mary’s injuries. I wanted to know all, however bad; I wanted nothing held back.

It was Paul who said he should be with me when the doctor talked to me, and it was he who said to the doctor: “You must be frank with Miss Tressidor. She wishes to know exactly what the position is.”

The doctor said: “She will never be the same again. She has sustained multiple injuries. I can’t say exactly how bad they are yet, but they are considerable. I doubt she will ever walk again. She is going to need nursing.”

“I shall nurse her,” I said.

“That is excellent, but you may need help. I think I should send a professional nurse.”

“Only if I need it,” I said. “Let me try first. I am sure she would prefer that.”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded.

“There is another thing,” I went on. “She would prefer to be in her own home. Mr. Landower has kindly offered us wonderful hospitality here, but naturally …”