10

OH, I LONG to blurt out the news in my first paragraph – but I won’t! This is a chance to teach myself the art of suspense.

We didn’t hear anything from the Cottons for nearly two weeks after we lunched in the village, but we hardly expected to as they were still in London; and while I was describing that day it was like re-living it, so I was quite contented – and it took me a long time, as Topaz developed a mania for washing, mending and cleaning, and she needed my help. I had to do most of my writing in bed at night, which stopped me from encouraging Rose to talk much – not that she had shown signs of wanting to, having taken to going for long walks by herself. This desire for solitude often overcomes her at house-cleaning times.

I finished writing of May Day on the second Saturday after it – and immediately felt it was time something else happened. I looked across at Rose in the four-poster and asked if she knew exactly when the Cottons were coming back.

‘Oh, they’re back now,’ she said, casually.

She had heard it in Godsend that morning – and kept it to herself.

‘Don’t count on seeing them too soon,’ she added. ‘Neil will keep Simon away from me as long as he can.’

‘Rubbish,’ I said; though I really had come to believe that Neil disliked her. I tried to get her to talk some more – I was ready to enjoy a little exciting anticipation – but she wasn’t forthcoming. And I quite understood; when things mean a very great deal to you, exciting anticipation just isn’t safe.

The next day, Sunday, something happened to put the Cottons out of my head. When I got down, Topaz told me Stephen had gone off to London. He hadn’t said a word to anyone until she came down to get breakfast and found him ready to start.

‘He was very calm and collected,’ she said. ‘I asked him if he wasn’t afraid of getting lost and he said that if he did, he’d get a taxi; but he hardly thought he would need to, as Miss Marcy had told him exactly which buses to take.’

I was suddenly furious at his asking Miss Marcy, when he had been so secretive with us.

‘I hate that Fox-Cotton woman,’ I said.

‘Well, I warned him to keep his eyes open,’ said Topaz. ‘And of course, her interest really may be only professional. Though I must say I doubt it.’

‘Do you mean she might make love to him?’ I gasped – and for the first time really knew just why I minded his going.

‘Well, somebody will, sooner or later. But I’d rather it was some nice girl in the village. It’s no use looking horrified, Cassandra. You mustn’t be a dog in the manger.’

I said I shouldn’t mind if it was someone good enough for him.

She stared at me curiously. ‘Doesn’t he attract you at all? At your age I couldn’t have resisted him for a minute – not looks like that. And it’s more than looks, of course.’

‘Oh, I know he has a splendid character,’ I said.

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ said Topaz, laughing. ‘But I’ve promised your father not to put ideas into your head about Stephen, so let’s leave it at that.’

I knew perfectly well what she had meant. But if Stephen is physically attractive, why don’t I get attracted – really attracted? Or do I?

After breakfast, I went to church. The Vicar spotted me from the pulpit and looked most astonished. He came to talk to me afterwards, when I was waking Heloïse from her nap on one of the oldest tombstones.

‘Does this delightful surprise mean you have any particular axe to grind with God?’ he enquired. It didn’t, of course – though I had taken the opportunity to pray for Rose; I don’t believe that church prayers are particularly efficacious, but one can’t waste all that kneeling on hard hassocks.

‘No, I just dropped in,’ I said lamely.

‘Well, come and have a glass of sherry,’ he suggested, ‘and see how well the collie dog rug looks on my sofa.’

But I told him I had to talk to Miss Marcy, and hurried after her; seeing her was my real reason for coming, of course.

She obligingly dived straight into the subject to which I had meant to lead up.

‘Isn’t it splendid about Stephen,’ she said, blinking delightedly. ‘Five guineas for just one day – nearly six, if he saves the money that was sent for taxis! So thoughtful – how kind Mrs Fox-Cotton must be!’

I didn’t find out anything interesting. Stephen had come to her for a guide to London; there isn’t one in the library but she had helped him with advice. When I left her she was still burbling about the wonderful chance for him, and Mrs Fox-Cotton’s kindness. Miss Marcy isn’t the woman of the world Topaz and I are.

Stephen didn’t come home until late in the evening.

‘Well, how did you get on?’ asked Topaz – much to my relief because I had made up my mind not to question him. He said he had taken the right bus and only been lost for a few minutes, while he was looking for the house. Mrs Fox-Cotton had driven him back to the station and taken him round London on the way. ‘She was nice,’ he added, ‘she looked quite different – very businesslike, in trousers, like a man. You never saw such a huge great camera as she has.’

Topaz asked what he had worn for the photographs.

‘A shirt and some corduroy trousers that were there. But she said they looked too new – I’m to wear them for work and then they’ll be all right for next time.’

‘So you’re going again.’ I tried to make it sound very casual.

He said yes, she was going to send for him the next time she had a free Sunday, probably in about a month. Then he told us about the broken bits of statues he had been photographed with and what ages the lighting had taken and how he had lunched with Mr and Mrs Fox-Cotton.

‘The studio’s at the back of their house,’ he explained. ‘You wouldn’t believe that house. The carpets feel like moss and the hall has a black marble floor. Mr Fox-Cotton asked to be remembered to you, Mrs Mortmain, ma’am.’

He went to wash while Topaz got him some supper. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I misjudged the woman.’

I talked to him when he came back and everything seemed natural and easy again. He told me he had wanted to buy me a present but all the shops were closed, of course. ‘All I could get was some chocolate from a slot-machine on the station platform, and I don’t suppose it’s special London chocolate.’

He was too tired to eat much. After he had gone to bed, I thought of him falling asleep in that dank little room with pictures of the studio and the Fox-Cottons’ rich house dancing in front of his eyes. It was odd to think he had been seeing things I had never seen – it made him seem very separate, somehow, and much more grown-up.

Next morning, I had something else to think about. Two parcels arrived for me! Nobody has sent me a parcel since we quarrelled with Aunt Millicent. (The last one she sent had bed socks in it, most hideous but not to be sneezed at on winter nights. They are finishing their lives as window-wedges.)

I could hardly believe it when I saw my name on labels from two Bond Street shops, and the things inside were much more unbelievable. First I unpacked an enormous round box of chocolates and then a manuscript book bound in pale blue leather, tooled in gold; the pages – two hundred of them, I counted – have dazzling gilt edges and there are blue and gold stars on the end papers. (Topaz said it must have cost at least two guineas.) There was no card in either of the parcels, but of course I remembered Simon had promised me a box of ‘candy’ if I let him look at my journal. And he had sent me a new journal, too!

There was nothing for Rose.

‘He can send me presents because he thinks of me as a child,’ I pointed out. ‘He’s probably afraid you wouldn’t accept them.’

‘Then he’s a pessimist,’ she said, grinning.

‘Well, eat all you can, anyway,’ I told her. ‘You can pay me back when you’re engaged – you’ll get dozens of boxes then.’

She took one, but I could see that it was the idea of owning them that mattered to her, not the chocolates themselves. She didn’t eat half as many as Topaz and I did; Rose never was greedy about food.

We had scarcely recovered from the excitement of the parcels when the Scoatney car arrived. Only the chauffeur was in it. He brought a box of hot-house flowers and a note from Simon asking us all to lunch the next day – even Thomas and Stephen. The flowers weren’t addressed to anyone and the note was for Topaz; she said Simon was being very correct, which was a good sign. She gave the chauffeur a note accepting for all of us but Thomas and Stephen, and saying she was uncertain about them – she didn’t like to refuse for them without knowing how they felt; which was just as well because Thomas insisted on cutting school and coming. Stephen said he would sooner die.

I ought to have recorded that second visit to Scoatney immediately after it happened, but describing May Day had rather exhausted my lust for writing. Now, when I look back, I mostly see the green of the gardens, where we spent the afternoon – we stayed on for tea. It was a peaceful, relaxed sort of party – I never felt one bit nervous, as I did when we went to dinner. (But the dinner-party was more thrilling; it glows in my memory like a dark picture with a luminous centre – candlelight and shining floors and the night pressing against the black windows.) Mrs Cotton was still away and Simon was very much the host, rather serious and just a bit stately, talking mainly to Father and Topaz. Even with Rose he was surprisingly formal, but he was jolly with me. Neil took a lot of trouble with Thomas, encouraging him to eat a great deal and playing tennis with him – Neil asked Rose and me to play, too, but she didn’t want to as she hasn’t had any practice since she left school. So she and I wandered around on our own and drifted into the biggest greenhouse. It was lovely moving through the hot, moist, heavily scented air and it felt particularly private – almost as if we were in a separate world from the others. Rose suddenly said:

‘Oh, Cassandra, is it going to happen – is it?’

She looked as she used to on Christmas Eve, when we were hanging up our stockings.

‘Are you really sure you want it to?’ I asked – and then decided it was a wasted question when she was so obviously determined. To my surprise, she considered it a long time, staring out across the lawn to where Simon was talking to Father and Topaz. A pink camellia fell with a little dead thud.

‘Yes, quite sure,’ she said, at last, with an edge on her voice. ‘Up to now, it’s been like a tale I’ve been telling myself. Now it’s real. And it’s got to happen. It’s got to.’

‘Well, I feel as if it will,’ I told her – and I really did. But greenhouses always give me a waiting, expectant sort of feeling.

Neil pressed another ham on Thomas and six pots of jam – Father raised a protest but it was very mild; he was in a wonderfully good temper. He borrowed a lot of books from Simon and retired to the gatehouse with them as soon as we got home.

The next exciting day was when we went for a picnic – they called for us unexpectedly. Father had gone to London again (without any explanation) and Topaz made an excuse not to come, so only Rose and I went. We drove to the sea. It wasn’t like an ordinary English picnic, because Neil cooked steak over the fire – this is called a ‘barbecue’; I have been wondering what that was ever since I read about Br’er Rabbit. The steak was burnt outside and raw inside, but wonderfully romantic. Simon was at his youngest and most American that day. He and Neil kept remembering a picnic they had been on together when they were very little boys, before their parents separated. I suppose they are only gradually getting to know each other again, but I feel sure Neil is already fond of Simon; with Simon one can’t tell, he is so much more reserved. They are both equally kind but Neil’s nature is much warmer, more open. He was nice even to Rose that day – well, most of the time; not that I see how anyone could have helped being, because she was at her very best. Perhaps the sea and the fun of cooking the steak did it – something changed her into a gloriously real person again. She laughed and romped and even slid down sandhills on her stomach. We didn’t bathe because none of us had brought suits – a good job, too, as the sea was icy.

Simon seemed more fascinated than ever by Rose. Late in the afternoon, when she had just been particularly tomboyish, he said to Neil:

‘Did you ever see such a change in a girl?’

‘No, it’s quite an improvement,’ said Neil. He grinned at Rose and she pulled a little face at him; just for that minute I felt they were really friendly to each other.

‘Do you think it’s an improvement?’ she asked Simon.

‘I’m wondering. Shall we say it’s perfect for the sea and the sunlight – and the other Rose is perfect for candlelight? And perhaps what’s most perfect of all is to find there are several Roses?’

He was looking straight at her as he said it and I saw her return the look. But it wasn’t like that time at the Scoatney dinner table – her eyes weren’t flirtatious; just for an instant they were wide and defenceless, almost appealing. Then she smiled very sweetly and said: ‘Thank you, Simon.’

‘Time to pack up,’ said Neil.

It flashed through my mind that he had felt it was an important moment, just as I had, and didn’t want to prolong it. After that, he was as off-hand to Rose as ever and she just ignored him. It was sad, when they had been so friendly all day.

Neil had driven coming out, so Simon drove going home, with Rose at the front beside him. I didn’t hear them talking much; Simon is a very careful driver and the winding lanes worry him. It was fun at the back with Neil. He told me lots of interesting things about life in America – they do seem to have a good time there, especially the girls.

‘Do Rose and I seem very formal and conventional, compared with American girls?’ I asked.

‘Well, hardly conventional,’ he said, laughing, ‘even madam with her airs isn’t that’ – he jerked his head towards Rose. ‘No, I’d never call any of your family conventional, but – oh, I guess there’s formality in the air here, even the villagers are formal; even you are, in spite of being so cute.’

I asked him just what he meant by ‘formality’. He found difficulty in putting it into words, but I gather it includes reserve and ‘a sort of tightness’.

‘Not that it matters, of course,’ he added, hastily. ‘English people are swell.’

That was so like Neil – he will joke about England, but he is always most anxious not really to hurt English feelings.

After that, we talked about America again and he told me of a three-thousand-mile car-drive he made from California to New York. He described how he would arrive in some little town at sunset, coming in through residential quarters, where there were big trees and green lawns with no fences round them and people sitting on their porches with lighted windows behind them; and then drive through the main street with the shops lit up and the neon signs brilliant against the deep blue sky – I must say I never thought of neon lighting as romantic before but he made it sound so. The hotels must be wonderful, even in quite small towns there is generally one where most of the bedrooms have a private bath; and you get splendid food in places called Coffee Shops. Then he told me about the scenery in the different States he passed through – the orange groves in California, the cactus in the desert, the hugeness of Texas, the old towns in the South where queer grey moss hangs from the trees – I particularly liked the sound of that. He drove from summer weather to winter – from orange blossom in California to a blizzard in New York.

He said a trip like that gives you the whole feel of America marvellously – and even to hear him describe it made America more real for me than anything I have read about it or seen on the pictures. It was still so vivid for him that though each time we drove through a beautiful village he would say, ‘Yes, very pretty,’ I could tell he was still seeing America. I told him I was trying to see it too; if one can sometimes get flashes of other people’s thoughts by telepathy, one ought to be able to see what their minds’ eyes are seeing.

‘Let’s concentrate on it,’ he said, and took my hand under the rug. We shut our eyes and concentrated hard. I think the pictures I saw were just my imaginings of what he had described, but I did get the strangest feeling of space and freedom – so that when I opened my eyes, the fields and hedges and even the sky seemed so close that they were almost pressing on me. Neil looked quite startled when I told him; he said that was how he felt most of the time in England.

Even when we stopped concentrating he went on holding my hand, but I don’t think it meant anything; I rather fancy it is an American habit. On the whole, it felt just friendly, and comfortable, though it did occasionally give me an odd flutter round the shoulders.

It was dark when we got to the castle. We asked them in, but they were expecting Mrs Cotton to arrive that evening and had to get back.

Father came home while I was describing our day to Topaz. (Not one word did he say about what he had been doing in London.) He had travelled on the same train as Mrs Cotton and asked her to dinner on the next Saturday – with Simon and Neil, of course. For once, Topaz really got angry.

‘Mortmain, how could you?’ she simply shouted at him. ‘What are we to give them – and what on? You know we haven’t a stick of dining-room furniture.’

‘Oh, give them ham and eggs in the kitchen,’ said Father, ‘they won’t mind. And they’ve certainly provided enough ham.’

We stared at him in utter despair. It was a good thing Rose wasn’t there because I really think she might have struck him, he looked so maddeningly arrogant. Suddenly he deflated.

‘I – just felt I had to—’ All the bravado had gone out of his voice. ‘She invited us to dine at Scoatney again next week and— My God, I think my brain’s going – I actually forgot about the dining-room furniture. Can’t you rig something up?’

He looked pleadingly at Topaz. I can’t stand it when he goes humble – it is like seeing a lion sitting up begging (not that I ever did see one). Topaz rose to the occasion magnificently.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll manage. It’s fun, in a way – a sort of challenge—’ She tried to use her most soothing contralto, but it broke a bit. I felt like hugging her.

‘Let’s just look at the dining-room,’ she whispered to me, while Father was eating his supper. So we took candles and went along. I can’t think what she hoped for, but anyhow we didn’t find it – we didn’t find anything but space. Even the carpet was sold with the furniture.

We went into the drawing-room.

‘The top of the grand piano would be original,’ said Topaz.

‘With Father carving on the keys?’

‘Could we sit on the floor, on cushions? We certainly haven’t enough chairs.’

‘We haven’t enough cushions, either. All we really have enough of is floor.’

We laughed until the candle wax ran down on to our hands. After that we felt better.

In the end, Topaz got Stephen to take the hen-house door off its hinges and make some rough trestles to put it on, and we pushed it close to the window-seat, which saved us three chairs. We used the grey brocade curtains from the hall as a tablecloth – they looked magnificent, though the join showed a bit and they got in the way of our feet. All our silver and good china and glass went long ago, but the Vicar lent us his, including his silver candelabra. Of course we asked him to dinner too, and he came early and sat in the kitchen giving his possessions a final polish while we got dressed. (Rose wore Topaz’s black dress, we had found it didn’t look a bit conventional on Rose – it suited her wonderfully.)

Our dinner menu was:

Clear soup (made from half the second ham-bone) Boiled chicken and ham

Peaches and cream (the Cottons sent the peaches – just in time)

Savoury: Devilled ham mousse.

Topaz cooked it all and Ivy Stebbins brought it in; Stephen and Thomas helped her in the kitchen. Nothing unfortunate happened except that Ivy kept staring at Simon’s beard. She told me afterward that it gave her the creeps.

Mrs Cotton was as talkative as ever but very nice – so easy; I think it was really she who made us feel the dinner was a success. Americans are wonderfully adaptable – Neil and Simon helped with the washing-up. (They call it ‘doing the dishes’.) I rather wished they hadn’t insisted, because the kitchen looked so very un-American. It was wildly untidy and Thomas had put all the plates on the floor for Heloïse and Abelard to lick – very wrong indeed, because chicken-bones are dangerous to animals.

Ivy washed and we all dried. Then Stephen took Ivy home. She is the same age as I am but very big and handsome. She obviously has her eye on Stephen – I hadn’t realized that before. I suppose it would be an excellent thing for him if he married her, because she is the Stebbins’s only child and will inherit the farm. I wondered if he would kiss her on the way home. I wondered if he had ever kissed any girl. Part of my mind went with him through the dark fields, but most of it stayed with the Cottons in the kitchen. Neil was sitting on the table, stroking Ab into a coma of bliss: Simon was wandering round examining things. Suddenly the memory of that first time they came here flashed back to me. I hoped Rose had forgotten Simon’s shadow looking like the Devil – I had almost forgotten it myself. There surely never was a more undevilish man.

Soon after that we were into the exciting part of the evening.

It begun when Simon asked if they might see over the castle: I had guessed he would and made sure that the bedrooms were tidy.

‘Light the lantern, Thomas, then we can go up on the walls,’ I said – I felt the more romantic I could make it, the better for Rose. ‘We’ll start from the hall.’

We went through the drawing-room where the others were talking – that is, Father and Mrs Cotton were. Topaz was just listening and the Vicar opened his eyes so wide when we went in that I suspected he had been dozing. He looked as if he rather fancied joining us but I was careful to give him no encouragement. I was hoping to thin our party out, not thicken it up.

‘The gatehouse first,’ said Rose when we got to the hall – and swept through the front door so fast that I saw she meant to skip the dining-room. Personally, I thought pure emptiness would have been more distinguished than our bedroom furniture. Little did I know how grateful Rose was to be to the humblest piece of it!

As we walked through the courtyard garden, Simon looked up at the mound.

‘How tall and black Belmotte Tower is against the starry sky,’ he said. I could see he was working himself into a splendidly romantic mood. It was a lovely night with a warm, gentle little breeze – oh, a most excellently helpful sort of night.

I never mount to the top of the gatehouse tower without recalling that first climb, the day we discovered the castle, when Rose kept butting into me from behind. Remembering that, remembering us as children, made me feel extra fond of her and extra determined to do my best for her. All the time we were following the lantern and Simon was marvelling that the heavy stone steps could curve so gracefully, I was willing him to be attracted by her.

‘This is amazing,’ he said as he stepped out at the top. I had never before been up there at night, and it really was rather exciting – not that we could see anything except the stars and a few lights twinkling at Godsend and over at Four Stones Farm. It was the feel that was exciting – as if the night had drawn closer to us.

Thomas set the lantern high on the battlements so that it shone on Rose’s hair and face; the rest of her merged into the darkness because of the black dress. The soft wind blew her little chiffon shoulder cape across Simon’s face. ‘That felt like the wings of night,’ he said, laughing. It was fascinating watching his head next to hers in the lantern light – his so dark and hers so glowing. I tried and tried to think of some way of leaving them by themselves up there, but there are limits to human invention.

After a few minutes, we went down far enough to get out on the top of the walls. It took quite a while to walk along them because Neil wanted to know all about defending castles – he was particularly taken with the idea of a trébuchet slinging a dead horse over the walls. Rose tripped over her dress almost the first minute and after that Simon kept tight hold of her arm, so the time wasn’t wasted; he didn’t let go until we stepped into the bathroom tower.

We left Thomas to show the bathroom – I heard Neil roaring with laughter at Windsor Castle. Rose and I ran on to the bedroom and lit the candles.

‘Isn’t there some way you can leave us alone together?’ she whispered.

I told her I had been hoping to, ever since dinner. ‘But it’s very difficult. Can’t you just lag somewhere?’

She said she had lagged on the top of the gatehouse tower, but Simon hadn’t lagged too. ‘He just said, “Wait a minute with that lantern, Thomas, or Rose won’t be able to see.” And down I had to go.’

‘Don’t worry – I swear I’ll manage something,’ I told her.

We heard them crossing the landing.

‘Who sleeps in the four-poster?’ asked Simon, as they came in.

‘Rose,’ I said quickly – it happened to be my week for it, but I felt it was more romantic than the iron bedstead for him to picture her in. Then he opened the door to our tower and was very tickled to see Rose’s pink evening dress hanging in it – she keeps it there because the frills would get crushed in the wardrobe. ‘Fancy hanging one’s clothes in a six-hundred-year-old tower!’ he said.

Neil put his arm around Miss Blossom and said she was just his type of girl, then knelt on the window-seat to look down at the moat. Inspiration came to me.

‘How’d you like to bathe?’ I asked him.

‘Love it,’ he said instantly.

‘What, bathe tonight?’ – Thomas simply goggled at me.

‘Yes, it’ll be fun.’ Thank goodness, he caught the ghost of a wink I flickered at him, and stopped goggling. ‘Lend Neil your bathing-shorts – I’m afraid there’s only one pair, Simon, but you could have them afterwards. Rose mustn’t bathe because she gets chills so easily.’ (Heaven forgive me! Rose is as strong as a horse – I am the one who gets chills.)

‘We’ll watch from the window,’ said Simon.

I unearthed my bathing-suit, then ran after Thomas, who was yelling from his room that he couldn’t find the shorts – for an awful moment I feared he had left them at school.

‘What’s the game?’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you know the water’ll be icy?’

I did indeed. We never bathe in the moat until July or August – and even then we usually regret it.

‘I’ll explain later,’ I told him. ‘Don’t you dare put Neil off.’ I found the shorts at last – they were helping to stop up Thomas’s draughty chimney; luckily they are black.

‘You’d better change in the bathroom,’ I called to Neil, ‘and go down the tower steps. You show him, Thomas, and then stay and light us with your lantern. I’ll meet you at the moat, Neil.’

I gave him the shorts, then went to change in Buffer. Simon called: ‘Have a good bathe,’ as I ran through the bedroom, then turned back to Rose. They were sitting on the window-seat looking splendidly settled.

It was only while I was changing that I fully realized what I had let myself in for – I who hate cold water so much that even putting on a bathing-suit makes me shiver. I went down the kitchen stairs like an Eskimo going to his frozen hell.

I had no intention of showing myself in the drawing-room – I had outgrown my suit so much that the school motto was stretched right across my chest; so I went to the moat via the ruins beyond the kitchen. Near there, a plank bridge runs across to the wheat field. I sat on it, carefully keeping my feet well above the water. Neil wasn’t down – I could see the full length of the moat because the moon was rising. It was casting the most unearthly light across the green wheat – so beautiful that I nearly forgot the horror of having to bathe. How moons do vary! Some are white, some are gold, this was like a dazzling circle of tin – I never saw a moon look so hard before.

The water of the moat was black and silver and gold; silver where the moonlight shimmered on it, gold under the candle-lit windows; and while I watched, a gold pool spread around the corner tower as Thomas came out and set the lantern in the doorway. Then Neil came down looking very tall in the black bathing-shorts and stepped from lantern light to moonlight.

‘Where are you, Cassandra?’ he called.

I called back that I was coming, then put one toe in the water to know the worst. It was a far worse worst than I anticipated, and a brave idea I’d had of getting my going-in agonies over by myself, and swimming towards him, vanished instantly – I felt that a respite of even a few moments was well worth having. So I walked slowly along the edge of the field, with the wheat tickling my legs coldly as I brushed past, sat down on the bank opposite to him, and began a bright conversation. Apart from putting off the horror of plunging in, I felt dawdling was advisable in order to give Rose more time – because I was pretty sure that once we did get into the moat, we should very soon get out again.

I talked about the beauty of the night. I told him the winning anecdote of how I tried to cross the moat in a clothes-basket after I first heard about coracles. Then I started in on the good long subject of America, but he interrupted me and said: ‘I believe you’re stalling about this swim. I’m going in, anyway. Is it deep enough for me to dive?’

I said yes, if he was careful. ‘Look out for the mud at the bottom,’ Thomas warned him. He did a cautious dive – and came up looking a very surprised man. ‘Gosh, that was cold,’ he shouted. ‘And after all the sunshine we’ve been having!’

As if our moat took any notice of sunshine! It is fed by a stream that apparently comes straight from Greenland.

I said: ‘I wonder if I ought to bathe, really – after such a heavy dinner.’

‘You don’t get away with that,’ said Neil, ‘it was you who suggested it. Come on or I’ll pull you in – it’s really quite bearable.’

I said to God: ‘Please, I’m doing this for my sister – warm it up a bit.’ But of course I knew He wouldn’t. My last thought before I jumped was that I’d almost sooner die.

It was agony – like being skinned with icy knives. I swam madly, telling myself it would be better in a minute and feeling quite sure it wouldn’t. Neil swam beside me. I must have looked very grim because he suddenly said: ‘Say, are you all right?’

‘Just,’ I gasped, pulling myself up on to the plank bridge.

‘You come right back and keep on swimming,’ he said, ‘or else you must go in and dry yourself. Oh, come on – you’ll get used to it.’

I slipped into the water again and it didn’t feel quite so bad; by the time we had swum back as far as the drawing-room I was beginning to enjoy it. Topaz and the Vicar, framed in the yellow square of the window, were looking down on us. There was no sign of Rose and Simon at the window high above; I hoped they were too engrossed to look out. We swam through a patch of moonlight – it was fun making silver ripples just in front of my eyes – and then to the steps of the corner tower. Thomas had disappeared; I hoped to heaven he hadn’t gone back to Rose and Simon.

After we turned the corner to the front of the castle there was no more golden light from the windows or the lantern, nothing but moonlight. We swam on our backs, looking up at the sheer, unbroken walls – never had they seemed to me so high. The water made slapping, chuckling noises against them and they gave out a mysterious smell – as when thunder-rain starts on a hot day, but dank and weedy and very much of a night-time smell too. I asked Neil how he would describe it but he only said: ‘Oh, I guess it’s just wet stone’ – I found what he really wanted to think about was boiling oil being poured down on us from the battlements. Everything to do with castle warfare fascinated him; when we reached the gatehouse he asked how drawbridges worked and was disappointed to find that our present bridge isn’t one – we only call it ‘the drawbridge’ to distinguish it from the Belmotte bridge. Then he wanted to know what happened to the ruined walls we were swimming past and was most indignant with Cromwell’s Puritans for battering them down. ‘What a darned shame,’ he said, looking up at the great tumbled stones. I told him it was the first time I’d known him to have a feeling for anything old. ‘Oh, I don’t get a kick out of this place because it’s old,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I keep thinking it must have been a hell of a lot of fun.’

Once we were round on the Belmotte stretch of the moat it was very dark, because the moon wasn’t high enough to shine over the house. Suddenly something white loomed ahead of us and there was a hiss and a beating of wings – we had collided with the sleeping swans. Neil enjoyed that, and I laughed myself but I was really quite frightened; swans can be very dangerous. Luckily ours bore no malice – they just got out of our way and flapped into the bullrushes.

Soon after that, we swam under the Belmotte bridge and round into the moonlight again, on the south side of the moat. There are no ruins there, the garden comes right down to the water: the big bed of white stocks smelt heavenly. It occurred to me that never before had I seen flowers growing above my head, so that I saw the stalks first and only the underneath of the flowers – it was quite a nice change.

I was tired by then so I floated and Neil did too; it was lovely just drifting along, staring up at the stars. That was when we first heard the Vicar at the piano, playing Air from Handel’s ‘Water Music’, one of the nicest pieces – I guessed he had chosen it to suit our swim, which I took very kindly. It came to us softly but clearly; I wished I could have floated on for hours listening to it, but I soon felt cold and had to swim fast again.

‘There, we’ve made the complete circuit,’ I told Neil as we reached the plank bridge. ‘I’ll have to rest now.’

He helped me out and we climbed over the ruins and sat down with our backs against the kitchen wall; the sun had been shining on it all day and the bricks were still warm. We were in full moonlight. Neil had patches of brilliant green duckweed on his head and one shoulder; he looked wonderful.

I felt that what with the moonlight, the music, the scent of the stocks and having swum round a six-hundred-year-old moat, romance was getting a really splendid leg-up and it seemed an awful waste that we weren’t in love with each other – I wondered if I ought to have got Rose and Simon to swim the moat instead of us. But I finally decided that cold water is definitely anti-affection, because when Neil did eventually put his arm around me it wasn’t half so exciting as when he held my hand under the warm car-rug after the picnic. It might have improved, I suppose, but the next minute I heard Topaz calling me – I couldn’t tell where she was until Thomas signalled with his lantern from the Belmotte bridge. Then Father shouted that they were taking Mrs Cotton and the Vicar over to look at the mound and Belmotte Tower.

‘Mind you don’t catch a chill,’ Topaz warned me.

Neil called: ‘I’ll send her in now, Mrs Mortmain.’

‘But I’m not cold,’ I said quickly – I was afraid Rose hadn’t had long enough.

‘Yes, you are, you’re beginning to shiver – so am I.’ He took his arm from my shoulders. ‘Come on, where do we find towels?’

Never had such an innocent question so kicked me in the solar plexus. Towels! We have so few that on wash-days we just have to shake ourselves.

‘Oh, I’ll get you one,’ I said airily; then picked my way across the ruins very slowly, so as to give myself time to think. I knew we had two pink guest-towels in the bathroom – that is, they were meant as guest-towels; they were really tiny afternoon-tea napkins, kindly lent by Miss Marcy. Could I offer those to a large wet man? I could not. Then an idea came to me.

When we reached the back door I said: ‘Come in here, will you? It’ll be warm by the kitchen fire. I’ll bring a towel down.’

‘But my clothes are in the bathroom—’ Neil began.

I ran off calling over my shoulder: ‘I’ll bring those, too.’

I had decided to get my own towel or Rose’s – whichever proved to be the drier – and fold it like a clean towel; then go back to Neil with it clutched against me and apologize for having made it a bit damp. There would still be no need to disturb Rose’s tête-à-tête with Simon, because both towels were on our bedroom tower staircase – I had thrown them out there while tidying the house for the Cottons – and I could reach them through the drawing-room entrance to the tower. I meant to dress like lightning while Neil was dressing and then get back to the kitchen and keep him talking there a good while longer.

I got the drawing-room door in the tower open very quietly and started up. After I turned the bend I was almost in darkness so I went on all fours, feeling my way carefully. There was an awkward moment when I got tied up in Rose’s pink dress, but once clear of that I saw the line of light under the door to our bedroom. I knew the towels were only a few steps higher than that, so I stretched up and felt for them.

And then, through the door, I heard Simon say:

‘Rose, will you marry me?’

I stood stock still, scarcely daring to move in case they heard me. Of course I expected Rose to say ‘Yes’ instantly, but she didn’t. There was an absolute silence for a good ten seconds. Then she said, very quietly and very distinctly:

‘Kiss me, please, Simon.’

There was another silence; a long one – I had time to think I wouldn’t like my first kiss to be from a man with a beard, to wonder if Neil would have kissed me if Topaz hadn’t shouted to me, and to notice that a very cold draught was blowing down the tower on me. Then Rose spoke – with that excited little break in her voice that I know so well.

‘Yes, please, Simon,’ she said.

Then they were quiet again. I grabbed the towel – I could only find one – and started my way down. Suddenly I stopped. Might it not be more sensible to walk right in on them, just in case …? I don’t quite know what I meant by ‘just in case’ – surely I didn’t imagine Simon might change his mind? All I knew was that the sooner the engagement was official the better. I went back.

When I pushed the tower door open they were still standing in each other’s arms. Simon jerked his head round quickly, then smiled at me.

I hope I smiled back. I hope I didn’t look as flabber-gasted as I felt. Just for one second I didn’t think it was Simon. His beard was gone.

He said: ‘Is it all right by you if Rose marries me?’

Then we were all talking at once. I hugged Rose and shook hands with Simon.

‘My child, you’re like ice,’ he said as he let my hand go. ‘Hurry up and change out of that swimsuit.’

‘I must take Neil a towel first,’ I said, ‘and his clothes, too.’ I started off to the bathroom for them.

‘How do you like Simon without his beard?’ Rose called after me. I knew I ought to have spoken about it before but I’d had an embarrassed feeling.

‘Wonderful!’ I shouted. But was it? Of course he looked years and years younger and I was astonished to see how handsome he was. But there was something defenceless about his face, as if strength had gone out of it. Oh, his chin isn’t weak – it wasn’t anything like that. It was just that he had … a lost sort of look.

How on earth did Rose get him to shave? I wondered, as I collected Neil’s things. I guessed she had dared him to. I must say I was astonished at him – it seemed so undignified, using Father’s shaving tackle and my little enamel basin. (But then, the dignified, stately Simon seems to have vanished with the beard – I find it hard to believe now that I was ever even a little bit in awe of him; not that I think the change is merely due to the beard having gone, it is far more due to his being so much in love with Rose.)

When I went into the kitchen, Neil was standing so close to the fire that his bathing-shorts were steaming.

‘Why, I thought you’d forgotten me,’ he said, turning to smile at me.

‘Isn’t it splendid?’ I cried. ‘Rose and Simon are engaged.’

His smile went like an electric light switched off.

I said: ‘You don’t look exactly pleased.’

‘Pleased!’ For a second he just stood glaring; then he grabbed the towel. ‘Clear out and let me get dressed,’ he said – in a very rude tone of voice indeed.

I dumped his clothes down and turned to go, then changed my mind. ‘Neil – please—’ I tried to sound very friendly and reasonable. ‘Why do you hate Rose so? You have from the beginning.’

He went on drying his shoulders. ‘No, I haven’t. I liked her a lot at first.’

‘But not now? Why not, Neil?’

He stopped drying himself and looked me full in the face.

‘Because she’s a gold-digger. And you know it, Cassandra.’

‘I do not,’ I said, indignantly. ‘How dare you say a thing like that?’

‘Can you honestly tell me she isn’t marrying Simon for his money?’

‘Of course I can!’ I said it with the utmost conviction – and really believed it for that second. Then I felt my face go scarlet because, well—

‘You darned little liar,’ said Neil. ‘And I thought you were such a nice honest kid! Did you take me bathing deliberately?’

I was suddenly angry on my own account as well as Rose’s.

‘Yes, I did,’ I cried. ‘And I’m glad I did. Rose told me you’d interfere if you could – just because you want Simon to go back to America with you! You mind your own business, Neil Cotton!’

‘Get the hell out of here!’ he roared, looking so furious that I thought he was going to hit me. I went up the kitchen stairs like a streak, but paused on the top step and spoke with dignity:

‘I’d advise you to pull yourself together before you see Simon.’ Then I whisked inside and bolted the door – I wouldn’t have put it past him to have come after me.

One good thing about feeling so angry was that it had made me much warmer, but I was glad to get out of my wet bathing-suit and dry myself on Topaz’s bedspread. I was just finishing dressing in Buffer when I heard the Belmotte party coming across the courtyard. Simon, next door, said: ‘Let’s go and tell them, Rose.’ So I ran in and we all went down together.

We met the others in the hall. Mrs Cotton was close to the little lamp on the bracket so I could see her expression clearly. She looked astonished enough when she saw Simon’s beard was gone and got as far as ‘Simon—!’ Then he interrupted: ‘Rose is going to marry me,’ and her mouth just fell open. I was almost sure she was dismayed as well as surprised – but only for a second; then she seemed perfectly delighted. She kissed Rose and Simon – and thanked her for getting him to shave. She kissed Topaz and me – I thought she was going to kiss Father! And she talked—! I once wrote that her talk was like a wall; this time it was more like a battleship with all guns blazing. But she was very, very kind; and the more one knows her, the more one likes her.

In the middle of the congratulations Neil came in – I was glad to see his dress shirt had got pretty crumpled while I lugged it about. No one would have guessed that he had lost his temper only a few minutes before. He said:

‘Congratulations, Simon – I see the beard has gone! Rose dear, I’m sure you know all that I’m wishing you.’

I must say I thought that was rather neat; but it didn’t seem to strike Rose as having any double meaning. She smiled and thanked him very nicely, then went on listening to Mrs Cotton.

The Vicar said he had some champagne in his cellar and Neil offered to drive to the vicarage for it – and actually had the nerve to ask me to go with him. I refused just as coldly as I could without making it conspicuous.

But later on, when we were all standing talking in the courtyard before the Cottons went out to their car, he walked me away from the others so firmly that I let myself go with him. He took me as far as the big bed of stocks by the moat; then said:

‘Make it up?’

I said: ‘I don’t think I’m keen to. You called me a liar.’

‘Suppose I apologize?’

‘You mean you don’t think I am one?’

‘Won’t you settle for a straightforward apology?’

I felt in the circumstances that I would, but didn’t see how I could say so without its reflecting on Rose. So I didn’t say anything. Neil went on: ‘Suppose I add that I wouldn’t blame you for lying – if you did? And that I admire you for defending Rose. You don’t have to say anything at all, but if you forgive me just squeeze my hand.’

He slid his hand down from my elbow. I answered his squeeze. He said, ‘Good’ – then, in a more serious voice than I ever heard him use: ‘Cassandra, it isn’t that I want him to come back to America with me, honest it isn’t. Of course, I’d like it from a selfish point of view—’

‘I oughtn’t to have said that,’ I broke in. ‘It’s my turn to apologize.’

‘Apology accepted.’ He squeezed my hand again, then let it go and sighed deeply. ‘Oh, maybe I’ve got her all wrong – maybe she really has fallen for him. Why not? Any girl in her senses would, I guess.’

I guessed he guessed wrong about that – it seemed to me that lots of girls wouldn’t be attracted by Simon, in spite of his niceness; and that most of them would be by Neil. The moonlight was shining on his hair, which was drying curlier than ever. I told him there was still a bit of duckweed in it, and he laughed and said: ‘That was a darned good bathe, anyhow.’ Then Mrs Cotton called: ‘Come on, you two.’

After we had seen them off, the night suddenly seemed very quiet. I think we were all a little self-conscious. When we were back in the house Father said with a false kind of casualness: ‘Er – happy, Rose dear?’

‘Yes, very,’ said Rose, with the utmost briskness, ‘but rather tired. I’m going straight to bed.’

‘Let’s all go,’ said Topaz. ‘We shall wake Stephen if we wash the glasses tonight.’

Stephen had been in quite a while – though I must say he had taken his time seeing Ivy home. I had asked him to come in and drink Rose’s health in the Vicar’s champagne but he wouldn’t. He smiled in the most peculiar way when I told him about the engagement; then said: ‘Oh, well, I’m not saying anything,’ and went off to bed. Goodness knows what he meant.

I had a feeling that he had kissed Ivy.

I was longing to get Rose to talk, but I knew she wouldn’t until the trek to and from the bathroom was finished; and Father and Topaz seemed unusually slow about their washing. When they were shut in their room at last, Rose made sure that both our doors were firmly closed; then jumped into bed and blew the candle out.

‘Well?’ I said, invitingly.

She began to talk fast, just above a whisper, telling me everything. It turned out I had been right in guessing that she dared Simon into shaving.

‘At first he thought I was joking,’ she said. ‘Then he thought I was trying to make a fool of him and went all dignified. I didn’t take any notice – I just had to see him without that beard, Cassandra; I’d worked up a sort of horror about it. I went close to him and looked up and said: “You’ve got such a nice mouth – why hide it?” and I traced the outline of his lips with my finger. Then he tried to kiss me but I dodged and said: “No – not while you’ve got that beard,” and he said: “Will you if I shave it?” I said: “I can’t tell till it’s off” – and then I ran and got Father’s shaving things and Topaz’s manicure scissors and a jug of hot water from the bathroom. We were laughing all the time but there was a queer, exciting feeling and I had to keep stopping him from kissing me. He had an awful job with the shave and I suddenly went embarrassed and wished I’d never made him start. I could tell he was furious. And heavens, he was a sight after he chopped off the long hair with the scissors! I bet I looked horrified because he shouted: “Go away – go away! Stop watching me!” I went and sat on the window-seat and prayed – I mean I kept thinking, “Please God, please God”— without getting any further. It seemed ages before Simon dried his face and turned round. He said: “Now you know the worst,” in a funny, rueful sort of voice; I could see he wasn’t angry any more, he looked humble and touching, somehow – and so handsome! Don’t you think he’s handsome now, Cassandra?’

‘Yes, very handsome. What happened next?’

‘I said: “That’s wonderful Simon. I like you a thousand times better. Thank you very, very much for doing it for me.” And then he asked me to marry him.’

I didn’t tell her I’d heard. I shouldn’t like anyone to hear me being proposed to.

She went on: ‘Then – it was queer, really, because I’m sure I didn’t hear you in the tower – I suddenly thought of you. I remembered you saying I wouldn’t know how I felt about him until I’d let him kiss me. And you were right – oh, I knew that I liked him and admired him, but I still didn’t know if I was in love. And there was my chance to find out – with the proposal safe in advance! So I asked him to kiss me. And it was wonderful – as wonderful as—’

Her voice dwindled away. I guessed she was reliving it and gave her a minute or so. ‘Well, go on,’ I urged her at last, ‘as wonderful as what?’

‘Oh, as ever it could be. Heavens, I can’t describe it! It was all right, anyway – I’m in love and I’m terribly happy. And I’m going to make things splendid for you, too. You’ll come and stay with us and marry someone yourself. Perhaps you’ll marry Neil.’

‘I thought you hated him.’

‘I don’t hate anyone tonight. Oh, the relief – the relief of finding I’m in love with Simon!’

I said: ‘Supposing you hadn’t found it, would you have refused him?’

She was a long time before she answered, then her tone was defiant: ‘No, I wouldn’t. Just before he kissed me I said to myself: “You’ll marry him anyway, my girl.” And do you know what made me say it? Beyond him, on the dressing-table I could see my towel I’d lent him for the shave – all thin and frayed and awful. Not a spare towel have we in this house—’

‘Don’t I know it?’ I interrupted with feeling.

‘I won’t live like that. I won’t, I won’t!’

‘Well, you’ll be able to have all the towels you want now,’ said Miss Blossom’s voice. ‘Ever such congratulations, Rosie dear.’

‘And all the clothes I want,’ said Rose. ‘I’m going to think about them until I fall asleep.’

‘Would you like the four-poster so that you can gloat in style?’ I offered.

But she couldn’t be bothered to change.

While I was lying awake re-swimming the moat I noticed my enamel jug and basin silhouetted against the window; it was queer to think they had played a part in Simon’s shave. I kept seeing him with two faces – with the beard and without. Then it came to me that there was some famous person who shaved because of a woman. I tried and tried to think who it was but I fell asleep without remembering.

In the very early morning I woke up and thought, ‘Samson and Delilah’ – it was as if someone had spoken the words in my ear. Of course, it was Samson’s hair that got cut, not his beard so they sort of didn’t quite fit. But I did think Rose would rather fancy herself as Delilah.

I sat up and peered across at her, wondering what she was dreaming. While I watched, it grew light enough to see her bright hair stretched across the pillow and the faint pink flush on her cheeks. She was looking particularly beautiful – though no one could say Aunt Millicent’s nightgown was becoming. It’s strange how different Rose seems with her eyes closed – much more childish and gentle and serene. I felt so very fond of her. She was sleeping deeply and peacefully, though in a most uncomfortable position with one limp arm hanging out of the iron bedstead – you have to lie on the extreme outside to avoid the worst lumps in the mattress. I thought what a different bed she was certain to come by. I was terribly happy for her.