The adulteress

I saw her a few hours later. She was in the hall with her mother.

She looked at me defiantly, as though to say, Tell on me and I'll tell on you.

It was blackmail. I remembered that other occasion when she had bought my silence with the key of my door.

I wanted to get away from this house. It was evil, I knew it.

She was smiling at me blandly.

"You got very wet, Mistress Ransome," she said. "Mother told me that you came in really soaked. Did you change? You ought to. You don't want to catch a cold, do you?"

"Thank you for your concern," I said.

She gave me an innocent smile.

Two days later we left Eversleigh. Sabrina, I think, was happy to go, though Dickon was rather sullen.

"I believe you've really fallen in love with the place," said his mother fondly.

"I like it," answered Dickon. "I like it a lot."

And all the way home I was wondering what Evalina had said to him.

Harvest Home

More than a year had passed since our return from Eversleigh. It had been an eventful time as far as the country was concerned for George the Second died and his grandson ascended the throne. The third George was a youth of twenty-two and very much under the influence of his mother and Lord Bute, the man who was said to be her lover and that, most people said, augured no good for England.

In the country I was too immersed in my own private affairs to think much about which George ruled us—second or third, it seemed unimportant to me.

During the year I had not visited Eversleigh. Sometimes I felt I should go but I could never bring myself to it. The thought of facing Jessie and Evalina repelled me so strongly that I made excuse after excuse to myself not to go. There was no need, I would say. Uncle Carl had written—there were about four letters over the year—and he was well and happy and very well cared for. These words he underlined. Life was as good as it could be for an old man who could do little but sit in his chair or lie in his bed and review the days of glory—or folly, whichever way one looked at it.

Time passed so quickly and I had given up hope of ever seeing Gerard again. I did not think of him so frequently as I had in the past and when I did it was to look back on that adventure as something not quite real. I could even believe that Lottie was Jean-Louis's daughter. She was four years old now and beautiful. I suppose all mothers think that their children are more beautiful and intelligent than others but I don't think I was exaggerating her charms. Those violet eyes, with their fringe of dark lashes, and dark curling hair alone would have made her a beauty. She was not plump as some children are; her face was oval, her chin a little pointed. There were times when she looked older than her years. She was spritelike, mischievous, not fractious but fun-loving. Needless to say she was adored.

My mother, who could only vaguely remember her own mother—the legendary Carlotta—said she was sure there was a resemblance between my daughter and her great-grandmother.

Dickon had never betrayed by a look or a word that he knew of what had happened to me at Eversleigh before Lottie's birth. He never referred to my surprising him in the barn with Evalina. Perhaps he had not asked her what she had meant when she had shouted at me. It might have been the sort of remark that could have been thrown at anyone. Perhaps he thought that his behavior with Evalina was commonplace—as it might well be with him—and that my stepping into the barn at such a moment was no more than opening someone's door before they were properly dressed.

His attitude toward me had never been of a friendly nature. He had always sensed my disapproval—or rather my refusal to adore him as his mother and my mother did.

Our visit to Eversleigh had changed him, though. He became thoughtful and serious; he was to go away to school but he persuaded his mother and mine that he should not go.

He wanted to learn about the estate.

"Darling," said Sabrina, "you have to be educated, you know."

"I am. I'll go on with old Faulkner. But I want to be here. I want to be with you, dear mother, and you, Aunt Clarissa."

It amazed me how he could get his way with them. He was not demonstrative by nature and to have him declaring that he wanted to be with* them—as though for their own sakes— seemed to put them into such a delirium of joy that they were ready to grant him anything.

They exchanged glances, their eyes brim full of joy.

"Well, shall we leave it for a while?" said my mother. "Postpone school for another year, shall we say?"