Shadows in the Moonlight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

The following day, being a Saturday, I’m given the afternoon off. Cordelia has requested that the children spend the time with her and she disappears in her carriage, taking Gwen with them. I wave them on their way and then retreat into the house. With the children out of my care, I can’t help but wonder where Cavill is. He’s on my mind all the time and taking up more space in my heart with every moment that passes, despite my attempts to shut him out. I know I mustn’t feel tender towards him, but I can’t help it. I can’t help but throw myself unreservedly into this reality, even though I’m aware that it won’t last.

With the focus of my investigation departed, I decide to go for a walk and take a book with me to read in the shade somewhere. It’s another fine day, hot and still. The gardens are bathed in sunshine, and fauna and flora appear to be basking in it, for the birdsong is a clamour and the flowers are more radiant than ever. Through the lens with which I see the world, everything appears to be heightened – the colours, the sounds, the sensation of warmth on my skin and the smell of roses in my nostrils. It’s because it’s transient, because I know I’ll have to leave it. I want to live it to the full and savour every moment while I can.

I set off across the lawn. Daisies grow in the grass among white clover and dandelions, and fat bumblebees toddle about in search of nectar. I’m reminded of the meadow where I slid to as a child when I needed to escape the unhappiness in my home. I feel the same sense of peace and safety here. I can smell the lavender and hear the distant cooing of pigeons from the rooftops. The cooing dies away as I leave the lawn and enter the shady woods. I’m enjoying my stroll and the beauty of my surroundings. St Sidwell is an enchanting estate, bursting with extravagance. Everything is abounding with life, with fertility, with joy. There are giant red rhododendron bushes and wild jasmine that climbs the ancient oaks. There are damp corners where laurel grows, and ferns yet to fully unfurl. There are purple forget-me-nots and pink campion, yellow primroses and chamomile. I wander through the wildflowers, taking pleasure from the butterflies that bask in the sunlight and the dragonflies that whizz through the sunbeams, and I know that this is paradise. That paradise is right here where I am, for nature has never looked more glorious.

I hear someone call my name and stop. It’s Cavill. I turn and see him striding up the path towards me in a linen suit and straw hat, with what looks like his sketchbook under his arm. ‘Miss Swift,’ he says as he approaches. He lifts his hat. ‘Forgive me. I saw you leave the house alone and remembered I promised to sketch with you. Besides, it is not safe to be out on your own.’

I smile because I know that’s not true. I haven’t even left the property yet, nor do I intend to. ‘That is very kind of you,’ I reply.

‘Please, allow me to escort you.’ His eyes drop to the book in my hand. ‘Oh, you were planning on reading?’

‘Only because I had no one to talk to. I would much prefer to talk to you.’

He returns my smile enthusiastically. ‘Then I’m not disturbing you.’

‘Of course not. Please.’ I walk on.

‘We will find a nice place to sit down and then we will sketch.’

‘Very well,’ I agree. I think my sketching will be as embarrassing as my piano playing.

‘It’s such a fine day,’ he says, walking in step with me. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen a more beautiful summer.’

‘I cannot believe that is true. I imagine every summer at St Sidwell to be as beautiful as this.’

‘We get plenty of rain down here, you know. Why else would it be so green?’

‘Then I am fortunate to have arrived in fine weather.’

‘Perhaps you have brought the sunshine.’

I laugh. ‘I wish that were true, that wherever I went I endowed the place with sunshine.’

He looks at me seriously. ‘You have endowed me with sunshine, Miss Swift.’

I train my eyes on the path ahead. ‘It will rain tomorrow and then you will tell me that I have endowed you with that.’

‘I will not,’ he protests. ‘Ever since you arrived, I have been uplifted. Every time I look at you, I feel happy. I care not if it rains or if it’s fine. If I am in your company, the sun shines within me.’ He takes my hand. ‘May I?’ He brings it to his lips and kisses it.

I try to remind myself that I’m not here to embark on a love story, and yet …

Just then Pablo’s face pops into my mind. The thought of him is so incongruous here, in this time. He feels very far away and so does the heartache. I can’t believe I was ever taken in by him. Ulysses’ image follows, mocking me for being so gullible, so quick to fall wholeheartedly for someone – so desperate to be loved that I’ll believe any old romantic cliché that’s fed to me. I pull my hand away. Is Cavill playing with me, or can I believe he’s sincere? As sensitive as I am, I seem, to my cost, incapable of telling the difference.

I walk on beneath the trees, struggling to sound cheerful because the little voice in my head is filling me with doubt and self-reproach. ‘Teach me about the birds,’ I ask him, changing the subject and deliberately putting a little distance between us as we stroll side by side. ‘What is that one called?’

Cavill seems not at all put off by my sudden demurring. ‘That, my dear Miss Swift, is a green woodpecker,’ he says, and smiles in a way that suggests he’s rather enjoying the challenge. Does he think that I’m playing a game with him ?

‘What a fine red stripe it has on its head,’ I reply. ‘Have you sketched it?’

‘I have, many times.’

‘And that, what is that one?’ I point to a dull brown bird scurrying among the ferns.

‘A quail.’

‘Dinner?’

‘Not tonight. One tends to eat quail in winter. This quail is lucky.’

‘Lucky quail, indeed. I am familiar with the pheasant and the dove, the blackbird and the blue tit. I especially like blue tits. Can you distinguish a bird’s song without seeing it?’ I ask.

‘Indeed. Do you know which is my favourite birdsong?’

‘I could never guess. But let me try. Goldfinch?’

He laughs. ‘Not the goldfinch, although his song is pretty. No, the bird with the best voice, in my opinion, is the simple blackbird.’

‘I would never have known.’

‘The blackbird is not blessed with pretty feathers, but he has the most beautiful voice of all the birds. It is with that exquisite voice that he wins the heart of his mate.’

‘I will never listen to a blackbird now without being mindful of that.’

‘Shall we sit down, Miss Swift? It is hot in the sun, and you might enjoy a rest in the shade.’

Cavill spreads his coat over the grass, and I settle myself onto it while he leans back against the trunk of a beech tree. ‘Will you tell me your name?’ he asks, then before I can respond he adds, ‘No, let me guess.’

‘Very well.’ I know he will never guess right.

‘Rose?’

‘Wrong.’

‘Violet?’ he says with confidence.

‘No. Why do you think I am named after a flower?’

‘You are as beautiful as a flower, Miss Swift. But you are right. You are not fragile like a rose or a violet.’ He narrows his eyes, taking me in, trying to find the right word. ‘You are more like a queen,’ he announces with satisfaction. ‘Wise, open-minded, intelligent, bold.’

I laugh, enjoying the game. ‘I am not named after a queen, Mr—’

‘Cavill,’ he interrupts, looking at me steadily with those intensely blue eyes. ‘Just Cavill.’

‘I am not named after a queen, Cavill,’ I repeat, and the word tastes sweet – as well as a little forbidden – on my tongue.

‘It sounds better when you say it,’ he tells me. ‘Say it again.’

‘Cavill.’

He grins, pleased. ‘You must have a magnificent name then,’ he continues. ‘Like Joan of Arc, Florence Nightingale or Catherine de’ Medici?’

‘No, no and no.’

‘Boudicca?’ We both laugh.

‘Wrong again, Cavill.’

He sighs dramatically. ‘I will have one more guess. If I am wrong, you will have to tell me.’

‘Very well.’

He looks doubtful, but gives it a go all the same. ‘Mary?’

I shake my head and smile triumphantly. ‘Hermione.’

He smiles back and his eyes light up as if they have rested on something magical. ‘Hermione. What a beautiful name. Just like you. Are you named after the famous Hermione?’

I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about – the only Hermione I know is Hermione Granger. ‘Which one?’ I respond vaguely.

‘Hermione of Troy, King Menelaus and Helen of Troy’s daughter. But I think Hermione Swift has its own charm.’

‘Hermione Penelope Swift, if you please.’ I gasp at the audaciousness of saying that word out loud, for Penelope is my name. But I cannot pretend that it was an unconscious mistake. I yearn for Cavill to know something of me, the real me. Now he does, even though he’s unaware of it.

‘Cavill Henry James Pengower, if you please.’ We both laugh and I avert my gaze, because I’m overwhelmed with a desire to kiss him and know I mustn’t.

He’s brought two sketch books with him and a wooden case of chalks. We sit in the shade and begin to draw. I lean against a tree stump and, with the book open on my lap, I sketch a foxglove, because it doesn’t move like a bird does. Cavill declares that he’s going to draw a squirrel, but he has to be quick, because the creature remains still for a moment only before scaling a nearby tree and disappearing into the leaves. ‘So, what do you do now, Cavill Henry James Pengower? Draw the squirrel from memory?’

He looks at me quizzically and I wonder what I’ve said to amuse him. ‘You have an original turn of phrase,’ he comments, shaking his head. ‘I will draw the squirrel from memory, but I dare say it will return. Squirrels are curious creatures, and they will want to know what we are doing.’

‘I’m curious to see whether you are as good at drawing squirrels as you are at drawing birds.’

‘Oh, I think you will find my squirrel is every bit as good as my spoonbills and gannets. Perhaps even more so.’ There’s a hint of mischief in the curl of his lips.

‘I’ll be the judge of that, my friend,’ I return smartly, and he smiles secretively to himself as if perfectly confident of his talent.

We sketch in silence, until it’s too hot to sketch any more and I close the book and fan myself with it instead.

‘Show me your squirrel,’ I ask at length, when he puts down his piece of chalk and looks with satisfaction upon his sketch.

He holds up his book. He hasn’t drawn a squirrel at all. He’s drawn me.

He beams at my reaction, elated to have surprised me. ‘What do you make of it, my dear Hermione?’

I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful. I’m beautiful – or rather Hermione is. ‘I think it is a very fine squirrel,’ I joke. It’s come as such a shock, I can’t think of anything clever to say.

He grins. ‘I believe it is the finest squirrel in the wood. Indeed, in any wood.’

‘The resemblance is astonishing,’ I tell him, staring at it in wonder. I can’t help but ask myself whether he would think me so appealing if he saw me as Pixie with my long pink hair. Something inside me deflates because I know that he wouldn’t. He likes Hermione. Despite my wishing it, he doesn’t see me .

‘I’m glad you think so,’ he says. ‘Your opinion matters to me.’

‘Does it?’

He looks deeply into my eyes, and that deflated feeling inflates into optimism. ‘It does. Very much.’

‘You have my high regard,’ I tell him quietly.

‘Might I have your affection too?’ he asks, holding my gaze steady with his.

‘I am a governess, Cavill,’ I remind him.

‘What difference does that make? You’re a woman, Hermione. One that I greatly admire.’ And, as I sink into his stare, I’m hopeful that his admiration is inspired by something more profound than the superficial Hermione that he sees with his eyes.

That evening, there is a grand dinner party at the manor. I watch from an upstairs window as the carriages draw up in front of the house. The guests alight in their finery – the ladies in their elegant dresses and sparkling tiaras, the gentlemen in white tie. I imagine Cavill and how dashing he must look, and I wish that I were there to see him. But my presence is not required tonight. It’s a blessing for I would not have anything suitable to wear.

I’m too agitated to remain in my sitting room. I need to move. I can’t sit still in this airless house. It’s much too hot, and I’m restless with anxiety. I know I shouldn’t be falling in love. I should remain detached and focused on my mission. I’m not here for my own pleasure. But four days feels like four weeks. I’m sinking into this dimension and growing accustomed to it. My own life seems very far away, as if that is the dream and this is the reality.

Timesliding really messes with my head! I have to remain focused and not forget who I am.

I decide to go for a walk. I set off in the golden evening light, avoiding the front lawn where the guests are enjoying a drink before dinner. I have no plan. I follow my instincts and allow myself to be led into the woods and out the other side, eventually winding up at the chapel. It rests quietly here in the dusk, as if it’s asleep. A pair of fat pigeons coo from the roof, but, besides them, all is still. I sit on the iron bench, which is set against the chapel wall facing the graveyard, and allow my thoughts to wander. It’s startling how quickly one gets used to a way of living. How quickly one sinks into a new reality and how normal it feels. I don’t think about Ulysses any more, and I’m so invested in this dimension that I’ve all but forgotten Pablo. It’s as if he’s part of another life lived long ago. I can’t believe I ever cared for him. That I suffered because of him. Now my heart is full of Cavill, spilling over with him, to the point where I can’t ever imagine it otherwise. I want to believe that he’s honest and sincere about the way he feels about me. I want to believe that it’s possible to fall in love in a few days, that it’s not only the stuff of novels and films, but reality too, and that it can happen to me .

I gaze up at the pale evening sky and feel that familiar tug somewhere in the depths of my being. In the place where my loneliness dwells and silently yearns for connection. Am I a dreamer to hope that Cavill might see beyond the physical and into my very soul? That he connects with the deep, eternal part of me that lies beneath the personality, beneath the woman, beneath Hermione and even beneath Pixie – the real me. Is it possible to sense in another that dimension that exists beyond time and space? Do I sense it in him? Am I a hopeless fool to search for it, to want it? If we were to meet in another time, would a light in our eyes lead us to recognise each other when our appearance is that of a stranger?

I don’t belong here. I’m an imposter. Shortly, I’ll have to pull myself away. I can’t stay beyond Felix’s disappearance. Or longer than it takes to discover the truth about what happens that night. That wouldn’t be fair. I mustn’t forget my responsibility to Hermione. Eleven days of her life is a very long time.

I remain on the bench. The setting sun caresses my face; it’s lost its power now and is not so hot. The wind blows in off the water and cools the air, which is a relief. I listen to the roosting birds and take pleasure in the moment. I’m disturbed then by the sound of voices. I don’t recognise them and sense that they’re strangers, locals perhaps, or travellers trespassing on Mr Pengower’s land. I get up at once and hide around the corner of the chapel. Gingerly, I peep out. I see two scrawny, filthy-looking men in ragged clothes. One is carrying a dead rabbit by the feet. It looks like the first square meal they’ve managed to find in days. The other, with his sharp, rapacious eyes and pointy face, is carrying a knife. They’re a pitiful, yet menacing, sight. I know that they mustn’t see me.

They try the door. It’s unlocked. I suppose if the family left it locked, the trespassers would only break a window to get inside. They disappear into the interior, and I edge closer to listen to what they’re saying. Their accents are so strong, curling their ‘r’s and leaning on their consonants, that I can make out only a little of their conversation. By the tone of their voices, however, I deduce that they’re put out that there’s nothing in there worth stealing. Could these men be linked to Felix’s disappearance? They’re certainly desperate, and on the prowl. Whether they’re evil, I cannot say. What can people hope to gain from stealing a child? A ransom? Or do they hope to inflict pain on people who have so much when they have so little? Is that what it’s about – resentment?

The men come to the door again and I dash back to my hiding place. They’ve found nothing. Besides the rabbit, their hands are empty. They shuffle off in the direction of the estuary and I’m alone once more. No wonder Cavill didn’t want me walking about the place on my own. He’s right – it’s not safe.

I decide to make my way back to the house. The sun has now dipped behind the horizon. The moon is beginning its nightly climb and the first star twinkles in the cobalt sky. It’ll be dark soon and I need to return while I can still see the way. I hope I don’t meet anyone else skulking about the woods.

I reach the garden from the rear of the house. The track leads me past the stable block where the golden light of a gas lamp glows in one of the upstairs windows. I make my way towards the servants’ entrance. It’s then that I notice a shadowy figure climbing the drainpipe. It clings to the building like a giant rat. I stop and stare in horror. My heart thumps. I wonder if I should scream to alert the household. It’s my instinct to tell someone. But then I remember that I’m not here to change things, merely to witness them. I crouch down and watch. Closer now, I can make out who it is.

It’s John Snathe. He’s climbing nimbly into one of the attic windows, where I can just make out the silhouette of a woman. It must be Gwen. Something about the sight of him climbing the drainpipe gives me an uneasy feeling in my gut.

After he’s disappeared inside, I walk on into the house by way of the servants’ door. I take the stairs to the first floor and creep down the corridor to my bedroom. I hear the distant sound of voices rising up from the hall. The gentlemen must be smoking in the dining room while the ladies have moved into the drawing room. I think of Cavill there and wish that I could be with him. I wish I could warn him of what is soon to happen, but, if I did, I would change the future and who knows what the consequences of that would be? I cannot and must not tamper with time.

As the grandfather clock sounds the hour from somewhere deep within the house, edging closer to the dreadful night of Felix’s disappearance, I sense evil has already slipped one of its dark tentacles beneath the door of St Sidwell Manor and I’m powerless to do anything about it.

I’m awoken by a twisting feeling in my belly. I reach for the light, but of course there isn’t one. The room is dark but for a sliver of silver that trickles through the curtains from the crescent moon. I find the box of matches and light the gas lamp. I attempt to look at my watch, but I’m not wearing one. The clock on the shelf tells me it’s two in the morning. I think of John Snathe climbing the drainpipe and then my mind turns to the men I saw at the church, and the twisting feeling in my belly grows tighter. Is that how the intruder breaks in to steal Felix away? Up the drainpipe? Driven by a sense of disquiet, I put on my dressing gown and step out into the corridor. I tread softly down it, towards the part of the house where Cordelia sleeps, and beyond her bedroom to her husband’s suite of rooms. I know that in families such as this one, husbands and wives do not sleep together but have their own quarters.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, but, spurred on by a strange nervousness, I follow my instincts. They prove to be on point for I notice the vanishing glow of a gas lamp at the bottom of the stairs. I turn my own lamp low and quietly descend. My feet tread silently on the wooden steps and I’m grateful that they don’t cause the floorboards to squeak and betray me. I decide that, if I’m caught spying, I’ll claim to have suspected an intruder.

Whoever it is has gone into the library.

I reach the hall and hurry across it to hide behind the door to the library, which has been left ajar. I peer through the crack. My heart is pounding wildly against my ribcage. I breathe as quietly as I can. I’m terrified of being caught snooping. Terrified for Hermione as well as for myself, for if I’m discovered the consequences for her will be dreadful.

It’s Cordelia. She’s standing in front of the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace. I’m astonished to see a cleverly disguised door open among the books. She’s walking through it. I can see from the light of her lamp that there’s a narrow staircase behind it. I imagine it must be another priest hole, perhaps leading into a tunnel that runs beneath the house and into the garden. She goes down a couple of steps and then twists round and closes the door behind her.

I wait a few minutes to make sure that she’s not coming back, then turn up my lamp and go straight to the bookcase to see if I can find out how she opened the secret door. I look hard among the books, pressing them as well as the wooden spines that separate the sections in the hope that I’ll trigger some clever mechanism, like the rose in the dining room. Nothing happens. The door is completely concealed. If I hadn’t seen her walk through it with my own eyes, I would not believe it to be there. I go to the window to see if I can spy her in the garden, but all is still, bathed in the weak silver glow of the waxing moon.

I’m triumphant. Now I know how Felix must be taken out of the house when all the doors and windows are locked. I wonder who else knows about this secret exit, or has Cordelia stumbled across it, as the maid stumbled across the one in the dining room that Robert showed me, and kept the knowledge to herself?

I realise, too, that this is how Cordelia escapes from the stifling atmosphere of the house. I imagine her sitting in blissful solitude on the bench in the vegetable garden, wrapped in the soft cloak of darkness, and I smile to myself. Is this perhaps a small and harmless act of rebellion on her part, defying her husband who is so certain that he has locked everyone inside his fortress?

The following day is Sunday. I accompany the children and the rest of the family to the chapel in carriages. The silver has been laid out on the altar and the candles are lit. The building no longer appears to sleep but resonates with music and song and prayer. The children, in their Sunday best, are well behaved, in spite of Felix whispering loudly that he would like to make a den beneath the altar cloth and pretend to be a badger. Mrs James Pengower attends with Mr Bray. He seems to escort her everywhere. I’m intrigued to know what their relationship is. He’s clearly a close family friend as well as an employee, which seems a little unusual in a household where there is a vast distinction between the family and those who work for them. But then I think of myself and Cordelia. The fact that she wants to make a friend of me, and invites me to join them at dinner, is unusual too. As I observe them, I see that Mr Pengower, Cordelia and Cavill all treat Pascoe with familiarity, as if he’s one of them. I wonder whether it’s Mr Pengower or Cordelia who is driving these intimacies. Judging by what I’ve seen, I would say that it’s Cordelia herself. She told me that she and Mr Bray share the same concerns about the miners and their welfare. Perhaps she knows that Mr Bray can help her in her endeavours to improve their conditions and that is why she keeps him close. Cordelia’s opinions might not be tolerated by her authoritarian husband, but I think it is she who sets the tone of the household.

Unlike Pascoe Bray, who sits with me and the family at the front, the servants take their places at the back, along with the gardeners, Mr Grantly and the grooms. It appears that only Mr Symons remains in the house, with Mrs Moyle, who I imagine is cooking lunch. Cordelia has told me that the children will join the adults at the dining-room table, and so shall I. She says it’s an opportunity for Robert to show off his manners and for his little brother to watch him and learn.

Cordelia is glowing and in high spirits. She has clearly been recharged by her nocturnal visit to the vegetable garden. Gwen, on the other hand, is drowsy and glum, and I’m not at all surprised. I don’t know what time John Snathe left her bedroom, but by the weary look on her face and the endless sighing, I imagine it was late. She sits at the back with the other servants and tries not to nod off during the sermon.

There appears to be an awful lot going on in this house under the cover of darkness. I resolve to lie in wait tonight in the library for Cordelia – that way I will find out how she opens the secret door and then I can discover where it leads.

I sit with the children and their mother in the front pew. Mr Pengower sits with his mother, Pascoe Bray and Cavill in the pew on the other side of the aisle. Most of the seats are empty. I wonder if there was a time when the family was large enough to fill the whole place. We are so few, it seems almost indulgent to require a priest just for us. Wouldn’t it be more convenient to attend the church in town?

I catch Cavill’s eye and he gives me a secretive smile. I avert my gaze and settle it upon the paintings of saints and angels that surround the arched window behind the altar. It is then that I notice a phrase from the Bible written in gold lettering: Suffer the little children to come unto me . It makes me think of Felix. I look across at him, so innocent and sweet, and my heart aches. This time next week this child will be gone. He’ll simply vanish. I pray to God that I’ll find out what happens to him. What I do then, with the information gleaned, can only be guessed at. Will it be enough to move Cordelia on?

During the ride back to the house, I find myself seated beside Miss Prideaux in a carriage driven by John Snathe. Mr and Mrs Pengower are in the bigger one with the children and Mr Bray, and the other servants are walking, for it’s only a short distance away and the weather is fine. I haven’t spoken to her much since I arrived. She’s busy with Cordelia. The job of lady’s maid is a relatively elevated one, and it’s all-consuming. I’ve occasionally crossed paths with her on the stairs as she takes her mistress’s breakfast up on a tray and when she’s coming down with a dress to mend, or a stain to be removed. She always smiles and greets me politely. Now we have time to talk. She’s lively and indiscreet. ‘Didn’t he go on so?’ she says of the vicar. ‘Have you noticed how they all sound the same? They have a common pompousness in their tone of voice, an air of superiority, as if they have exclusive access to God. Perhaps that is part of their training, learning how to be pompous.’

I laugh. She’s absolutely right. ‘I suppose they consider us ignorant sheep who need to be herded so we don’t stray off the path,’ I reply.

‘And that path only leads in one direction. Theirs.’ She lifts her chin and offers her pretty face to the sun.

‘I’m afraid being in the right is a prerequisite to being a member of any religion,’ I add. ‘It is by putting everyone else in the wrong that they reinforce their sense of identity.’

‘You speak wise words, Miss Swift. And have you noticed how, after holy communion, those who have received it return to their seats with a look of moral superiority on their faces, as if they have been elevated? It lasts until luncheon and then they forget that they have been blessed and return to their usual ways.’

‘You are very observant,’ I tell her and we laugh together.

‘I enjoy watching people. It makes life more enjoyable. The priest puts himself on display every Sunday, so it’s easy to observe him. However, I do not always observe to mock, Miss Swift. Some characters I am very fond of. Take Mr Bray, for example. He is an upstanding, and sensitive man – handsome too. You may not know but his wife died some years ago. Poor woman. She was very sick. She simply faded away. It’s a wonder that he has not remarried. I imagine an attractive man like him would not have trouble in finding a new wife. I’m sure they are queuing up at his door.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t want one. Perhaps he wants to remain loyal to his wife.’

‘There is no point in remaining loyal to someone who is dead, Miss Swift.’ She sighs and I wonder whether she rather sees herself by his side. ‘He needs someone to look after him. Men are not very good at looking after themselves.’

‘Maybe he’s too busy with his job to think about love,’ I suggest.

‘You might be right.’ She leans towards me and lowers her voice. ‘He’s constantly fighting with Mr Pengower over the miners’ living conditions, which are shoddy. You would be horrified. He’s their knight in shining armour. You will not know this, but last year there was an accident up there and Mr Bray went into the collapsed tunnel with no thought for his own safety and saved one of the men. Another young lad was killed. Terrible thing. The poor boy died instantly. But Mr Bray is a hero among them. Apparently, Mr Pengower only arrived on the scene when it was over. They say he was having luncheon and did not want to be disturbed, but I don’t know whether that is true.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I cut in, but I have no reason to say that other than in disbelief that anyone could continue eating under such circumstances.

‘I have overheard Mrs Pengower fighting with her husband in Mr Bray’s defence,’ Miss Prideaux continues. ‘She, like Mr Bray, is a compassionate person. Occasionally, when Mr Pengower is away on business, Mr Bray takes Mrs Pengower up to the mine so that she can talk to the men and give them encouragement. She listens to their complaints and tries to reassure them that things will improve. Mr Pengower would be furious if he found out. He would accuse her of undermining him. I can tell you, he has lost his temper with her for less. But the miners respect Mrs Pengower. No one throws eggs at her when she goes into town – they throw eggs at her husband though.’

I’m horrified. ‘They throw eggs at Mr Pengower?’ I repeat.

‘Indeed, they do. I have seen it with my own eyes.’ She lowers her voice further. ‘I should not speak out of turn, but you will soon learn for yourself, so I might as well enlighten you now. Mr Pengower is not a kind man. Oh, he can appear perfectly charming when he wants to. I have watched him with guests he needs to impress, then he is all sweetness and light and butter won’t melt in his mouth. But sometimes the manner in which he treats Mrs Pengower is cruel. I would not want to be married to a man like him, however much money he had. Mr Bray is gentle and sympathetic. If he remains a bachelor out of respect for his wife, then it is simply testament to his loving heart, and only makes him more noble in my eyes.’

‘Why doesn’t Mr Pengower improve the mines? Could he not pay the men more? He’s a wealthy man.’

Miss Prideaux widens her eyes theatrically and grins. ‘Because he is greedy, Miss Swift. He wants to keep it all for himself. I do not imagine he pays Mr Bray very much.’

‘It is a curious relationship,’ I begin carefully. ‘Mr Bray is a gentleman and a friend, but he also works for Mr Pengower. How is that so?’

‘Mr Bray is, indeed, a gentleman. I do believe that he and Mr Pengower were educated together. Mr Bray’s family lost their money and Mr Pengower, on inheriting the mine from his father, took Mr Bray on to help him run it. That is what I have gleaned from keeping my ear to the ground.’ She sniffs and pulls a face to show that she’s proud of her craftiness. ‘Mr Bray is loyal to Mr Pengower, and Mr Pengower respects him, even though they do not agree on many things, otherwise they would have parted ways long ago. I think Mr Pengower knows the high regard in which the miners hold Mr Bray, and that prevents him from laying him off. Without Mr Bray, there would be serious trouble up at the mine.’

‘Have the miners ever threatened the family besides throwing eggs?’ I ask, thinking of Felix and what is to come.

‘If I were Mr Pengower, I would be very careful,’ she replies portentously. ‘With a bit of drink in them, there are some that might easily do something they might later regret.’

That afternoon, Cordelia summons me to her sitting room. She’s looking anxious and alert. She closes the door behind me and invites me to sit with her in the window seat. I can tell from her cautious, conspiratorial air that she’s about to confide in me something that she doesn’t want anyone else to know. We sit and she takes a breath. ‘I consider you my ally, Miss Swift, as well as my friend. I need you to come with me today. I am going to drive to the gypsy encampment and give charity to the women. I want the children to come with me. Mr Grantly and John will take us in the carriage. Mr Pengower, as you know, does not agree with me in this case, therefore I have not told him.’ She smiles suddenly and her eyes shine. In them is both fear and excitement.

‘What if he finds out?’ I ask. I imagine Ivan Pengower has a formidable temper.

‘He is away all afternoon, returning for supper. I can count on Grantly and John to keep it secret. There is little chance of him finding out, and, if he does, well …’ She lifts her chin defiantly. ‘I will hold my ground.’ Her courage lasts only a moment, however. She sighs and drops her shoulders, the sheen of excitement dimming in her eyes. ‘It grieves me to hear Robert speak of the gypsies with intolerance and judgement when he has never even met one. He copies his father, who he admires, echoing his intolerant opinions like a parrot. Much of the time what my husband says is in stark contrast to what I believe. I don’t want Robert growing up to be prejudiced and dogmatic like him. He is afraid, you see, my husband. Afraid of foreigners. But that is human nature, isn’t it, to be afraid of the unknown, and suspicious of it?’

‘It is,’ I agree. ‘And when people are afraid they turn aggression to protect themselves from the perceived danger. Most of the time there is no danger at all. It is all in their heads, anticipating it.’

She smiles wanly. ‘Those poor gypsies are outsiders therefore people are mistrustful of them. They accuse them of all sorts of terrible things. They should not be treated with disdain simply because they want to live differently to the rest of us. I am a Christian woman, Miss Swift, and Jesus taught us to love our neighbour as ourselves. Well, the gypsies are my neighbours and I want to do the right thing and help them. We are all the same in the eyes of God. But we are all different in the eyes of man.’

‘You are a good woman, Mrs Pengower.’

‘I do my best. I try to be a good wife, but, truly, my higher purpose in this world is to be a good mother. That is my priority. Therefore, I will take children to meet the gypsies to broaden their horizons. To give them perspective and clarity. To make them understand that there are people who are less fortunate than them, and to know that there is much that can be done to help them.’

‘You do not consider Master Felix a little young for the experience?’ I ask. I cannot help but wonder whether those men who were thrown into a cell on account of Mr Pengower’s complaints might be looking for revenge.

‘I did consider that, Miss Swift. But I do not believe he is too young. Perhaps it will make a greater impression on him because of his tender age. Maybe the experience will ignite something inside him that will inspire him to be charitable one day. I am afraid he is not going to learn to be charitable from his father. Besides, he is always being left out. His father has eyes only for his firstborn, moulding Robert into a miniature version of himself. Felix is overlooked and he minds. He craves his father’s attention and admiration. Therefore, he will come with us.’ She grins at me and the excitement is restored in her impassioned gaze. ‘It will be an adventure for all of us!’

We set off in the early afternoon with the roof of the carriage folded down. I sit beside Felix, facing Cordelia and Robert. It’s another sunny day, but there’s a haze in the air that seems to make the heat more intense. I fan myself and feel my skin grow damp inside my dress. As we near the sea, a gentle breeze begins to blow, and I turn my face into it in search of relief. It gives little, but it’s pleasant none the less.

Cordelia is elegant in a pale pink dress and matching hat, complete with flowers and ribbons, and a white lace fan, which she waves in front of her beautiful face. Once again, she’s like a painting and I can’t take my eyes off her. My dress and hat are modest compared to hers. I feel like a moorhen beside a flamingo, but I don’t mind. I mind only of what Cavill thinks.

Robert and Felix are excited to be out with their mother and chat away without restraint, asking questions and making comments. Cordelia indulges them with patience, pointing out things that might interest them, answering their questions thoughtfully. Then she turns her gaze to the landscape and becomes quiet suddenly, as if disturbed by the infiltration of something dark and unwelcome in her mind. Her expression changes from serene to troubled. I wonder whether she’s worrying about her husband finding out and getting angry. I recall Miss Prideaux’s words about Mr Pengower being cruel. I wonder what she meant. How cruel is he? He was coldly dismissive of Cordelia the other evening when she spoke about the travellers, but I haven’t yet seen him lose his temper. It doesn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination, though, to envisage it. Might Cordelia be struggling to cope with him? Is that why she’s looking to find a friend in me ?

She notices me watching her and shifts out of her reverie with a couple of blinks and a wistful smile. I return her smile. However, I can’t help but frown at her inquisitively. She responds with a sigh. ‘It’s too lovely,’ she says, looking once again at the faraway hills. ‘It breaks the heart.’

The carriage rattles up a track that cuts through a meadow of buttercups and long grasses. On the right is the sea, glittering and sparkling in the sunshine. Felix points at a gull wheeling above us and then waves at it gleefully. When he stands up, his mother tells him to sit down. ‘We don’t want you falling out, my love,’ she says, and gazes at him with tenderness, her troubled face relaxing into tranquillity once again.

Ahead is the encampment. From a distance it looks picturesque, for there are green and red caravans, white tents, muscular cart horses, and linen hanging from the branches of trees and blowing in the wind. But as we get nearer, the scene takes on a very different hue. Robert comments on the squalor and his mother reprimands him, telling him to keep his voice down. ‘Remember, my dear, that these people do not have the luxuries we do. They deserve our respect and compassion, not our condemnation.’ Then she turns to me and smiles wistfully. ‘There is something terribly appealing about their way of life.’ She laughs at herself. ‘It reminds me of the poem The Raggle Taggle Gypsy . About the lady who runs off to live in freedom with the gypsies. “What do I care for a goose-feather bed?”’ She sighs deeply. ‘Indeed, sometimes I wonder.’

Shortly, the people come into view. They stop what they’re doing when they see us and form a group, like deer coming together for safety. The women’s long skirts are colourful and bohemian, their peasant blouses billowing and embellished with embroidery. They wear headscarves and tasselled shawls, beads in their hair and bangles on their wrists, and their skin is a rich, golden brown. They certainly look different to the pale, weathered faces of the locals, which explains the hostility they arouse in people who, as Cordelia acknowledged, are afraid of strangers. Even in my own time, where people are generally more accepting of those who are different, there is, unfortunately, still mistrust. Mr Pengower’s view of them is the common view. Cordelia is unusual, and I admire her for having her own mind, and heart.

As the carriage draws up, the children break away from their parents and come running towards us excitedly. Their clothes are a patchwork of bright colours and they’re shoeless. ‘I wish I did not have to wear shoes,’ says Felix, gazing at them with longing.

‘You would be sorry not to have shoes in winter,’ Robert retorts.

Cheerful and friendly, the gypsies are quite the opposite of Mr Pengower’s descriptions. In fact, they’re exuberant and their laughter and cries of delight fill the air like the squawking of gulls. I look out for signs of malice but see none. I see only curiosity as Mr Grantly halts the horses in their midst. The poverty of their living conditions is impossible to ignore, and I feel a wave of pity, for I haven’t seen poverty like this before. Cordelia’s expression is full of concern. ‘We are here to help these people just as we help those in St Sidwell,’ she tells her children. ‘You must be polite and kind and friendly. They might be dressed differently, but in God’s eyes they are the same as us.’ Cordelia is determined that her children do not grow up with the same prejudices as their father. She is set upon broadening their experience and deepening their understanding of people, in all their many variations, and I admire her. She is a woman ahead of her time.

Mr Grantly helps us down from the carriage, then he and John set about unloading the baskets of food, children’s clothes and blankets, and other items that Cordelia no longer needs. I take Felix’s hand and we accompany his mother, who takes it upon herself to talk to the women and to distribute the offerings. They’re grateful. Their hands reach out and their eyes shine with gratitude. They’re far from the menacing thieves and rogues that Mr Pengower and Robert have made them out to be.

There are a few men among the group and I search for the two I saw at the chapel the evening before, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I imagine they’re out working or looking for work. Perhaps they’re not even travellers at all, but miners, or vagrants who wandered onto Mr Pengower’s land and have since moved on. Children gather around Robert, gazing at his fine clothes and putting out their fingers to touch them. Robert, ever his father’s son, pushes their hands away and crinkles his nose with repulsion. Felix, however, is the focus of the mothers’ and grandmothers’ attention. They pinch his pink cheeks and coo at him like colourful pigeons, and he relishes their curiosity and giggles joyfully. He has picked up none of his father’s prejudice and is as inquisitive as a puppy. After a while he runs off to play with the other children, while Robert goes to help Mr Grantly and John – anything to get away from the strange people he so abhors.

Just then an old woman with long white hair flowing out of a brightly patterned scarf grabs me by the hand. I turn and notice at once that the eyes gazing up at me are opaque, like peeled lychees. She’s blind. She presses my palm into the hollow of her weathered brown cheek and gives her head a little shake, as if she’s trying to sense something that’s just beyond the powers of her perception. She narrows her eyes that do not see and cranes her neck, listening hard. I recognise her kind at once. She’s a seer. I suspect, from the realisation dawning on her face, that she has recognised me too. Her bony fingers find my face and cup it, pulling me towards her own, which is strangely beautiful despite her great age. Wisdom is embedded in the deep lines that scratch it with a thousand crosses. ‘Who are you?’ she whispers and her lips part to reveal an incomplete set of stained teeth.

‘No one,’ I reply quickly. My head is like an egg in the clutches of an eagle. I pull myself out of her grasp.

‘I see you,’ she says and nods with satisfaction. ‘You are special, like me.’

I glance at Cordelia, but she’s busy distributing charity to grateful women. Felix is surrounded by a group of children, laughing merrily. The gypsy women are rummaging through the baskets with enthusiasm, pulling everything out and shrieking in delight. Robert is sulking and staying close to Mr Grantly.

The seer and I are alone.

For a moment I feel as if we are a million miles away from the encampment, on another plane entirely.

‘Take care,’ she says softly, and, even though her eyes don’t see, she looks at me keenly. ‘It is a dangerous game to play with time.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I protest weakly. But one cannot hide from a seer. Is it possible that she’s a timeslider like me?

She ignores my denial. ‘You are young. You have much to learn.’ She takes my hand again, sandwiching it between her brown ones and squeezing it meaningfully. ‘One thing you must know: love will bring you back,’ she says. ‘Love will always bring you back. It is very important that you do not forget this for you will need it. Yes, with your gift you will surely need it. There is no force more powerful in the universe than love.’

I wonder with a pang of anxiety what she has seen in my future to inspire this warning.

That night, I lie in wait for Cordelia in the library. I hide behind the curtain as if I’m in an Agatha Christie movie. At least I can sit on the window seat and look out onto the garden and big black sky. The stars are very bright tonight and the moon, growing fatter with every lap, will soon be at its fullest. I wish I had a smartphone. I’m not used to waiting and doing nothing. I hear the grandfather clock in the hall mark the hour of midnight with twelve loud chimes. They echo through the silent hall. I wait. And I wait some more.

I hear the clock chime one, then two and finally, I realise that she’s not going to come.

At least, not tonight. I will try again tomorrow.