“They are thinking what he intends they should. He is a man of the world and now he is contributing in a very public way to charity. Your father is the sort of man who will be unperturbed by anything that happens to him. You must try to be like him, Helena.”

“As if I ever could be! I’m not looking forward to it and you’ll miss Jonnie.”

“Very much … and you, too. But we have to go on, Helena. We can’t just stand still. We have been through a lot and we have learned to grow away from it.”

“You have that chance now … with Rolf.”

“And so have you a chance … with Jonnie. Your mother will help. I think she is one of the kindest people I ever knew. You’re lucky to have her.”

“She’s an angel but not a very practical one.”

“You’ll be all right. Helena, suppose Matthew comes back.”

“I suppose he will in time.”

“How do you feel abut him?”

“Very grateful. He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“He is dedicated to his purpose.”

“Yes. He’s like Frances Cresswell in a way. Those sort of people want to do good. They are wonderful people … but they don’t always care so much for just one person.”

“Do you think … if he came back, you would be together … that you could love him?”

“I don’t think I shall ever love anyone like that but John.”

“He should have gone on with the marriage, defied his family.”

“He just couldn’t. He had to do what seemed right to him.”

“If he had known about Jonnie …”

“I didn’t want marriage on those terms … because he had to. I wanted him to marry me because he wanted to.”

“He did want to …”

“But not enough. You’re lucky, Annora. Rolf loves you … completely. There was a time when I thought you might marry Gregory Donnelly.”

“Surely not. I loathed the man.”

“He was so sure of himself. I thought he might find some way of forcing you to marry him.”

“I can’t see how he could have done that in any circumstances.”

“Well, you’re lucky. Rolf is our sort. You’ll be very good together. You’ve got all this. Just fancy. It’s yours. Oh, Annora, I hope you are going to be very happy.”

“I’ll try to be,” I said. “And, Helena, you must, too. Don’t forget. You have Jonnie.”

“The dearest treasure in the world.”

We laughed; and then she wanted to see how my wedding dress was progressing, so I took her to the room where Jennie was working and we had a discussion about pleats and tucks and Honiton lace versus that of Brussels.

Helena was getting ready to leave. The day after the wedding we should set out, Rolf and I, for our honeymoon, Helena and Jonnie for her father’s London home. Rolf and I were to spend a few nights there before going to the coast.

Jonnie was almost walking now. He was just over a year old. He crawled along at great speed, then he would stand and after a few tottering steps sit down on the floor. There was no nanny. Helena had not wanted that. Most of the women in the house were only too glad to lend a hand looking after him if for any reason his mother or I could not.

I was going to miss Jonnie very much.

As my wedding day approached I began to grow apprehensive. It had seemed such a heaven-sent solution at first, for I knew that it would take me a long time to learn all that would be expected of the owner of Cador. Rolf was to teach me. He loved the place; he always had; and I needed someone to love me deeply. I wanted to be cherished. I had lost so much love. It was natural that I should turn to Rolf, the idol of my childhood who, knowing me so well, could understand the enormity of my loss. I often thought that if it had not been for that Midsummer’s Eve Rolf and I might well have been married long ago. Perhaps before I had gone to Australia. But that night could not be forgotten; and it was brought back more vividly one day about a week before the day fixed for the wedding.

Rolf was still fascinated by the old customs of Cornwall. In his library at the Manor he had collections of books about them. He liked to take me there and he would get quite carried away talking of them. I was reminded of those times when he had visited us with his father and how he had held us all spellbound.

On this occasion he was talking about old cures which the Cornish had believed in years ago.

“There were white witches who did good with their cures,” he was saying, “and there were the kind who practised the evil eye and put spells on people so that disaster followed. Just listen to some of the things they did.” He opened a book. “Look at this. Whooping cough cured by filling a bag full of spiders and tying it round the neck of the poor child who had to wear it night and day. Here’s another. For asthma. ‘Collect webs, roll them into a ball and swallow.’”

“Spiders seemed to have had a beneficial effect.”

“Styes on eyes treated by touching the eyes with a cat’s tail.”

“I believe they still do that.”

“I’ve no doubt. Some old letters were found in the attics at Bray’s place. Tom Bray showed them to me. They are amazing. I must get him to show them to you.”

We were standing at the bookshelves below which was a row of drawers. He pulled one out. “No,” he said, “not here.” Then he opened the next and I saw it. It was lying there and there was no mistaking it.

I stared at it.

“It’s that old habit,” he said. “I went to a ceremony once …”

“I remember hearing about it.”

“This is what we wore.”

“You showed it to me once before … long ago.”

“Oh yes, I did.” He had taken it out and slipped it on. I felt my heart racing. As he stood before me he slipped the hood over his head. His face was almost hidden.

“It’s horrible,” I cried.

He took it off and laughed at me.

“I must admit it is rather gruesome. I’ll tell you why. It is very like the sort the executioners used to wear in the Inquisition. In this I looked as if I might have stepped out of an auto-da-fé.”

“Yes,” I said. “And you wore it …”

“At that ceremony. I thought it was going a bit far to dress up like that. I never went again.”

He rolled up the habit and put it into a drawer.

“Why,” he said, “I believe I frightened you. You look quite shaken.”

He came to me and put his arms round me. “The time seems to drag,” he went on. “It seems as though our wedding day will never come.”

With his arm about me I felt better. It was true I had been shaken to see him in that robe. It had taken me right back to that fateful Midsummer’s Eve.

After that it kept intruding into my thoughts.

The day before the wedding, I rode alone in the woods. On impulse I went to the clearing by the river. The remains of the burned-out house were still there. Nothing had ever been done about it.

It was on our land and I remembered my father had gone to look at it one day and he had come back and said that another cottage should be built there. He had set one of the builders to investigate.

But no one was anxious to work there. A rumour went round that to do so would bring bad luck to anyone who had anything to do with it. The place was bewitched.

I remembered my father’s saying: “Better leave it till they’ve forgotten. They’ll be working up all sorts of superstitions about the place. God knows who would want to live there. These things magnify and they thrive on them. No. No one would want the cottage. We’d better leave it alone.”

A few years later he had made another attempt but he had met with all kinds of excuses.

After that nothing had happened.

I paused there, remembering. It all came back to me so clearly. The lighted thatch … the figure in the robe. Had he been the first one to throw the torch? I believed so. I remembered the cottage as it had been. Digory standing at the door with the cat; I could hear the final scream as the poor animal was consumed by the flames. I felt sick, physically and mentally. That people could do such things! They were savage, and yet by the next morning they had returned to their normal guises. One could never know the hidden depth of people’s characters nor how they would act when confronted with certain situations.

I wanted so much to forget that night, but I could not. It had stamped itself indelibly on my mind.

The wind sighed mournfully through the trees; I felt cold though the sun was hot. Memories of those faces in the light of the torches kept coming back to me. The hooded figure which I had believed concealed someone I knew.

I rode home thoughtfully. I felt melancholy. Was it because I was going to be married in the morning? Surely a matter for rejoicing. It was a solemn occasion. Perhaps many girls felt as I did the day before they were taking the great step.

I thought: Maybe it is too soon. I should have waited. But on the moonlit night on the ship when Rolf had told me that he had not been in the woods on that Midsummer’s Eve, it had seemed so right.

He had been to Bodmin. Of course he had. Why had he not said he was going? Why had he not mentioned it until now? How strange that we could go on under a misapprehension for so many years!

I wished I could disperse the memories of that night, but they kept coming back to me: the shouts of the people, Mother Ginny with her grey hair straggling about her ashen face. I could not forget it. Digory cowering in the grass, robbed of his bravado … just a terrified child.

Then I was thinking of Jacco, all the fun we had together, and how that night we had saved Digory. And my misery was back as heartrending as it had ever been.

I wished I could have found Digory. Would that have helped? Digory would be all right, my father had said. He would land on his feet. Heaven knew he had had enough experience of fending for himself.

Why had I gone to the woods on the eve of my wedding? It was a foolish thing to have done.

I must forget that night. I must forget my doubts. They were natural enough. They came to all girls who were on the point of taking such a momentous step.

It was afternoon. I was in my room getting together a few things which I should take on my honeymoon. The house was quiet and I suspected Isaacs was taking a nap, which I believed he did at that hour. Mrs. Penlock too, I supposed.

Suddenly I heard her voice. She was talking to one of the maids. They must be coming in from the kitchen garden for I heard Mrs. Penlock say: “I think that will be enough. Miss Helena pecks like a bird. I don’t think she wants to leave us.”

One of the maids—I think her name was Fanny—said: “You’d have thought she’d have wanted to, wouldn’t ’ee, Mrs. Penlock? It must be wonderful to go up to London.”

Mrs. Penlock gave her familiar snort. “Full of thieves and vagabonds up there, if you was to ask me.”

“’ee don’t say, Mrs. Penlock!”

“I could tell ’ee a few things. Never mind now. We’ve got a wedding on our hands.”

“Miss Annora don’t look like a bride somehow.”

“Be careful of that basket. She’s all right. Best thing that could have happened. She needs someone to look after her. ’Tain’t natural women being left with places like this. It needs a man.”

“He’s lovely, don’t ’ee think so, Mrs. Penlock?”

“He’s all right. Better than one of them smart lahdidahs from London what she might have got hold of.”

I had to listen. I found their views amusing. I guessed they would soon pass out of earshot, but the basket must have been heavy and they were walking slowly: every now and then they paused.

“Soon be part of the Manor,” said Fanny.

“Don’t ’ee say such a thing. Manor’ll be part of us, I reckon. Well, ’tas always been a dream of Mr. Hanson to get his hands on this place.”

“But it’ll be Cador still. ’Twon’t be Hansons.”

“’Course it’ll be Cador, but she’ll be his wife, won’t she? And what’s hers’ is his and I’m not so sure that what’s his is hers. That’s the way of the world. I reckon he be pleased with himself. I remember him coming here years ago … Heard him say to his father, ‘I’d like to have this place.’ I reckon he always meant to own it somehow.”

“But he be sweet on Miss Annora.”

“He is and all. Sweet on her and sweet on Cador, I reckon,” affirmed Mrs. Penlock. “So it’s sweet all round. Come on, Fan. Get a move on. We’ll never get these done in time if you don’t.”

“Don’t ’ee think this wedding’s a good thing then, Mrs. Penlock?”

“I reckon it’s about the best thing that could have happened to him. He’ll have Cador, won’t he, which is what he’s always wanted.”