Gossamer Cord

“I did try once and was refused. The Tregarlands are not very sociable, you know. The old man is a bit of an enigma and he is the head of it. He lives rather like a recluse now, but he had quite a reputation in the past. He was once a very merry gentleman—very fond of the ladies—traveling around, living riotously. Dances, card parties, and then suddenly he became ill. It was the gout, I believe, which incapacitated him somewhat. He married in his forties, but he didn’t really settle down then until the gout grew worse. His wife died a few years after Dermot was born, and then Mrs. Lewyth and her little boy came to live there. She looks after him very well, I believe. There’s a rumour that she is a distant relation—a poor one—but no one seems quite certain of that.”

“I am not sure, either.”

“Well, he has become much more sober since then. Enforced, of course. But all that was years ago.”

He looked at my empty tankard.

“Would you like another?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“I see you are a wise young woman. It is rather potent.”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

“You’ll get used to it in time.” He smiled at me. “As we can’t invite each other to our houses, we shall have to have a meeting place. Not too often here.” He raised his eyebrows. “For obvious reasons, we do not want to figure too often in the news bulletins. We will go somewhere else. There are some interesting places around here.”

“I daresay I shall be going home soon.”

“We must meet before you do and make arrangements for your next descent upon us.”

I felt very pleased that he had suggested this, and we arranged to meet two days later in the field where I had fallen and we would go out to the Horned Stag, which was a little way out on the moor.

We parted at the boundary and I rode back to Tregarland’s exhilarated by the encounter, but I could not stop thinking of Annette who was to have had Dermot’s child and had, one morning, foolishly gone swimming in the sea.

Next morning I could not resist going along to have a look at Cliff Cottage, There it was, as Jowan Jermyn had described it, set on the west cliff, looking down on the town. It was very neat, with white net curtains at the windows and a front garden which was clearly very well tended.

I lingered and a woman came out of the cottage. I had a notion that she had seen me through the lace curtains.

She did not speak; she had a somewhat dour expression—one might say bellicose almost, as though she were warning me to keep away.

“Good morning,” I said pleasantly.

She nodded acknowledgment of the greeting and somehow managed to imply that, as far as she was concerned, that was the end of the encounter.

I was disappointed. I had hoped she would be like so many of the people hereabouts, eager for a little chat.

I said: “I was admiring your garden.”

I had hit on the right note, for her expression softened ever so slightly. I had guessed she was devoted to her garden. I pressed home my advantage.

“How do you manage to get these lovely things to grow here? It must be difficult, for you would get the full force of the wind, I imagine.”

“Aye,” she said grudgingly. “The wind’s a problem.”

“It must be hard work, and, of course, you have to choose what will thrive.”

“You a gardener?” she asked. Her voice was quite different from the soft Cornish accent which I had been hearing all around me. I remembered that Jowan Jermyn had said she came from the North.

“Not an expert one,” I said, falsely lying by implication, for I was no gardener at all. “But it is a fascinating hobby.”

“You’re right. Gets a hold of you.”

“Those firs…they are…?”

“Lawson’s cypress. Make a good hedge. The rate they grow, too!” She was definitely relenting. “They came through the post in an envelope…just a little packet, a bunch of sprigs. Now look at them.”

“Miraculous,” I said, gazing rapturously at them.

“They grow stubby…not tall, then they stand up to the wind. That’s something you have to think about in this place.”

I knew that it would be fatal to try to take the subject away from the garden.

She volunteered: “Climate here is soft and damp. Plants here are four weeks in advance of those in the North.”

“Is that so? What healthy-looking plants those are. What are they?”

She looked shocked because I did not know something so commonplace.

“Hydrangeas, of course. Grow like wildfire here because of the damp. This is going to be a good year for the roses.”

“Is it?”

She nodded sagely. “I know the signs.”

“You have some lovely ones.”

“Some varieties, yes. I’d like to get my hands on a good Christmas rose.”

“Can’t you…er …get your hands on one?”

“There’s one variety I want. ’Ee, it’s gradely, that one. I’ve only ever seen one in these parts. In the big house garden.” Her face hardened perceptibly. “Up at Tregarland’s. They’ve got just the one I’d like. They can grow it, and they’re as exposed as I am. Can’t get one anywhere. I’ve tried. I reckon it’s a hybrid. It’s a special sort. Like a Christmas rose yet different…in a way. Not quite, you see. I’ve never seen one just like it.”