I was a cheat. I was afraid. This was nothing more than a masquerade. I must not let myself become too deeply enmeshed.

But what was the use? I already was.

A few more days passed. I saw Malcolm on every one. Janet noticed. I think I must have betrayed my feelings for him. She was very observant and sometimes made me very uneasy, for I fancied she watched me closely; but I had to admit that she had helped me out with her gossip on more than one occasion.

There was nothing subservient about Janet. She regarded herself as highly privileged and one entitled to speak her mind.

She said: "You and Mr. Malcolm are becoming very friendly. I reckon that's a good thing, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you, Janet," I said. "But I suppose all friendship is a good thing."

"You remind me of someone I used to know very well. Always got an answer. Well, I reckon friendship is a good thing but when it's between such as you and Mr. Malcolm, it's a little bit more good than most."

"Oh?" I said.

"Well, what I mean is, you've got the castle and he wanted the castle, and he could be a great help in managing it... and I reckon if you're quite fond of each other ..."

"Janet, you presume too much," I said.

"All right, all right," she placated. "Perhaps I do speak out of turn. But it could be a good thing and there's no gainsaying that It could solve a lot of things and that's nice in itself."

So Janet had noticed. I wondered if others had too.

My nature was such that I would seize on an optimistic turn of affairs. I thought to myself, If Malcolm loved me, if I married Malcolm, if he shared the castle with me, what harm would have been done? I could let him take charge of things. I could always remember that he was the rightful owner. Could I, in such circumstances, forget my guilt? A wrong would have been righted. I would stand beside him, help him in what he wanted to do. It would be as it should have been on Susannah's death. It would just be that the heir of the castle had married me and thus I had become its mistress.

It seemed as though the gods of good fortune were offering me forgiveness on a plate.

It was a lovely euphoric experience. It made me feel that I was at liberty to fall in love with Malcolm, to marry him if he asked me and to live in peace for the rest of my life.

Perhaps in ten years' time when we had grown together and we had our children, I would confess to him. By then there would be no question of his not understanding and he would forgive me readily.

Oh, it was a happy solution. It seemed possible that it could come about.

We laughed together; we worked together; and I was happy. We discussed the castle constantly—what should be done and how we should do it. It was almost as though we were a partnership.

One day he said to me: "Have you ever thought of marrying now that Esmond is dead?"

I turned away. I dared not look at him. I knew that his feelings towards me were quite different from those he had had for Susannah, but that whenever we were on the point of getting to a closer understanding he would be repelled by some mystery he sensed between us. He could not believe in the change which had apparently come over Susannah and, while his emotions drew him to me, his common sense warned him against me. I think that sometimes he believed I would revert to the old ways and was asking himself whether I was playing a game of pretense. How right he was! And how often I considered making a confession. But I was afraid of losing him. I wanted to bind him so close to me that he could not escape, even if what I had done did fill him with horror. The force of my emotions was strong, as I believed his could be, but the guilt in me and the distrust in him lay between us like a two-edged sword.

I murmured: "Marriage is something not to be undertaken lightly. You, who have never married, agree with that, I am sure."

"I certainly have always felt it was a state into which one should not enter lightly. Esmond's death would have been a terrible blow to you. Was it?"

I turned my head away, feigning emotion.

"He was besotted about you," he went on. "I always felt sorry for him. You were so different then. Like another person. I should have been envious ... now."

I raised my eyes to his face. I so much wanted him to put his arms about me and tell me he loved me.

He took me by the shoulders and shook me slightly.

"Something happened, Susannah!" he cried. "What? For God's sake tell me."

I wanted to confess then. I dared not though. I was as unsure of him as he was of me.

"My father died," I said quietly. "It was a great shock... ."

He dropped his arms. He didn't believe me. That was not what he wanted to hear.

With a gesture of exasperation he released me.

He said no more, but I assured myself that one day ... soon ... he would. Perhaps he would ask me to marry him and then what should I do? Dare I confess?

Then I began to reason with myself. Why should there be need for confession? In marrying me he would automatically share the castle.

Why shouldn't that be the answer? Fate was offering me a way out.

Perhaps I should have known that was too good to be true. Life does not work out as smoothly as that.

I found the letters in a bureau in Susannah's room. It was a beautiful eighteenth-century piece which I had admired from the moment I saw it. It had several drawers which I used for the papers and diaries I had from Esmond's room.

I often went through these. They had been invaluable in teaching me about people on the estate and I found it very useful to study them.

I was in a state of euphoria, having spent almost the entire day in Malcolm's company. I had called in at the Chiverses' cottage and heard that all was well there; I saw that the curtains from the castle looked very grand and realized that they were a source of delight to Leah; but what I knew pleased her most was my interest in her. She looked upon me as a sort of protectress and that touched me deeply.

So I was ready for bed and I went to the drawer to get out the papers. I intended to sit up in bed and go through them, which had become a habit of mine. I opened the drawer and as I took them out I saw that some had become wedged in. I pulled at them, but they did not come away, so I knelt on my hands and knees to see if I could discover what was holding them.

I pulled gently and still they did not come away. I put in my hand to see if I could feel what was holding them. They were jammed. If I pulled the drawer right out I would release them. This I did. Then I realized that there was a secret drawer behind the one in which I had kept the papers. I put in my hand and drew it out. In it was a thin roll of paper tied up with red tape. I untied this and unrolled the paper. I saw that they were letters. My heart started to pound, for I realized they had been written to Susannah.

I knelt there for some seconds with them in my hands. I was not by nature a person who listened at doors or read other people's correspondence and I hesitated now as I had over Esmond's diaries.

Some instinct told me that these letters might contain vital information and that I must not be squeamish. I put back the secret drawer and pushed the other one into place in front of it and, chiding myself for being so foolish as to hesitate, I took the letters to my bed.

There I read them and after I had done so I lay awake considering their content. They had shattered me, those letters. I could only guess who had written them, but it seemed to me there was only one person who could have done so.

They were dated and in order, so I knew they had been written to Susannah just before she left England for Australia.

The first read:

Dearest and Most Wonderful (hereinafter and forever more known as D.M.W.) What bliss to be with you as we were last night. I never dreamed it could be so. And the best is yet to come. You have to do your part though and it won't be long. Wedding bells and the two of us here—the King and Queen of the Castle. You know how to deal with S.C. He'll do anything you ask. He's besotted. Clever of you to have reduced him to that state. Keep him like it. I don't ask how, but I understand and I'll try not to be jealous of your rural lover. We need his help to get the needful, for it has to come from a source where it can't be traced ... just in case. If he supplied it, he'll be involved. Not that it will come to that. We're going to see that it works smoothly.

D.M.W., I'll have to write to you, for it won't do for me to be around at this time. You never know. We might betray something. So burn any letters I write as soon as you have read them. In that way I can write frankly. Let me know when S.C. gives you what we need. A pity he has to be brought in, but we'll deal with that after. The King and Queen will act.

To the day, my love.

Devoted Slave and Constant Lover (hereafter D.S.C.L.)

I went on to the next.

D.M.W.,

So S.C. is holding off. Hasn't got it, he says. You'll have to get it from him. Tell him you want it for a face wash. They are bound to use it for something on the farm. Wheedle it out of him. I'm getting jealous. I think you're rather fond of him. I am sure you act your part well, but let's get this over and then no more of it, eh? I wish we could marry, but you won't, I suppose, until the coast is clear. You were always a devil, D.M.W. You want to keep one foot in each camp, don't you? You're not going to let go of Cousin E. until he's laid to rest. You want to be supreme, don't you? Remember I'm of the same blood. You know we're a reckless, scheming, ambitious brood. Mateland of Mateland. Burn this letter and all my letters. Get the stuff from S.C. and then make sure you use it. I'm getting impatient for you. I long for the day when we are you know where together.

My D.M.W.

Your D.S.C.L.

And the last one:

D.M.W.,

Have been frantically waiting to hear. What went wrong? Your mixture was not strong enough. Of course I know you had to avoid suspicion. Near to death ... that's not good enough, is it? And S.C. quitting this life in that melodramatic way. A pity we had to use him. Still, you're right. We must not attempt it again for a long time. Yes, I agree ... a year say. Then he can develop the same illness. That sounds very plausible. Who would have thought S.C. would have been such a fool? Let's hope he hasn't talked. That sort do sometimes. They make confessions. I wish we could have got the stuff without him. Too awkward though ... buying it ... or getting it through another source. We had covered our tracks well and then that fool calls attention to himself by that!

Now take heed, D.M.W. I like your plan. You're going away somewhere. You're going to look for your father, having discovered his whereabouts. That's fine. You shouldn't be there when it happens again. Fair enough. But I can't lose you all that time. I'll come out with you and then back ... and in a year's time we'll have the whole thing settled. We have to be patient. We have to think of what the reward will be ... you and I where we belong together.

It's really foolish to set all this down on paper, but I am foolish where you're concerned ... as you are with me. We've fooled them all with our battles. We'll go on fooling them. You'll hear when it's done and then you'll come home and you and I will find that our antipathy was a mistake. We loved each other all the time. Wedding bells and the castle ours. Mateland forever.

Burn this as you have the rest. Do you realize that this letter could condemn us? But so do I trust you. In any case we are in this together.

I'll be at the castle very soon now and you will be making your plans to leave. Be very loving to Esmond. But get away. The Cs may be awkward.

With you soon,

Your D.S.C.L.

I was shattered. Those letters betrayed so much. Esmond had been murdered. He was the victim of Susannah and her lover.

Susannah had attempted to kill him and her lover had succeeded in doing so, thus making Susannah mistress of the castle. Susannah had seduced Saul Cringle and he had provided her with the poison from which Esmond had died—presumably arsenic since there had been mention of a cosmetic. And she had been careless enough to leave these letters—incriminating as they were—in the secret drawer in her bureau, in spite of her lover's urgent injunction to destroy them. So I had found them. How careless she had been. But perhaps she had had some ulterior motive in preserving the letters.