‘She does bully her,’ said Candida. ‘I don’t like it either.’

The conversation stopped there, because they had turned in at the gate of Underhill.

Candida passed through the empty hall and ran upstairs. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and there was no one about. The Miss Benevents would be resting, and the staff would be in their own quarters. She passed along the winding passages to her room. As she approached it she heard the sound of weeping. It was a low sound made up of sighing breaths and a faint sobbing. The door of the room stood ajar, and the sound came from there. After a moment of hesitation she widened the gap and looked in.

Miss Cara stood by the cold hearth, her fingers wrung together and the tears trickling down her chin. She said, ‘Alan – ’ under her breath. And then she must have heard Candida cross the threshold, for she started, turned, and put out her hands. The next moment they were covering her face.

‘Aunt Cara – what is it?’

The hands dropped. She peered at Candida.

‘I thought – I thought – I was thinking about him – and when you came in – just for a moment I thought – ’

It was like seeing a child who has been hurt. Candida put her arms round the little trembling creature.

‘Dear Aunt Cara!’

The young warm voice, the words, quite broke Miss Cara down. She began to weep with all a child’s lack of restraint. Candida detached herself for long enough to shut and lock the door, and then returned to put Miss Cara into a chair and kneel beside her. There was nothing she could do except to find the handkerchief which was being groped for and to murmur the only half-articulate words and phrases with which she would indeed have tried to comfort a child.

As the weeping stilled, Miss Cara herself began to produce words – snatches of sentences – and the name which had so long been forbidden. She said it over and over again, always on the same note of desolation,

‘Alan – Alan – Alan – ’ And then, ‘If I only knew – where he was – ’

Candida said gently, ‘You have never heard?’

The word came back to her like a sighing echo,

‘Never – ’

‘You were very fond of him?’

One of the small stiff hands took hold of hers and held it tight.

‘So very – fond of him. But he went away… This was his room – when you came in I thought – ’

‘Why did he go?’

Miss Cara shook her head.

‘Oh, my dear, I don’t know. There was no need – indeed there wasn’t. Olivia said he took money and my diamond spray, but I would have given him anything he wanted. He knew that. You see, Olivia doesn’t know everything. I have never told her – I’ve never told anyone. If I tell you, you won’t tell her, or – or laugh at me?’ The clasp on Candida’s wrist became desperate.

‘Oh, no, of course I won’t.’

‘I’ve never had a secret from her all my life, but she wouldn’t understand. She is so much cleverer than I am, and she has always told me what I ought to do. But clever people don’t always understand everything, do they? Olivia doesn’t understand about being fond of anyone. When Alan went she just said he was ungrateful and she didn’t want to hear any more about him. But you don’t stop being fond of anyone because they do something that is wrong. She didn’t understand that at all.’

‘I’m so sorry, Aunt Cara.’

Miss Cara said,

‘You are kind. Candida was kind – my sister Candida. She loved your grandfather and she went away with him, and Papa would never allow us to mention her name. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. I would have gone anywhere with Alan if he had wanted me to – anywhere.’ She dropped her voice to a shaking whisper. ‘Do you know, we were going to be married. I’ve never told anyone, but you are kind. Of course it wouldn’t have been a real marriage – there was too much difference in our ages – more than thirty years. It wouldn’t have been right. But if he was my husband, I had what they call a power of appointment and I could leave him quite a lot of the money for his life. I remember the lawyer telling me so when Papa died. He said, “If you marry, Miss Cara, under your grandfather’s will you can use this power of appointment and leave your husband a life interest whether there are any children or not.” And Olivia said, “Then she could use it to leave the life interest to me.” And he said, “I’m afraid not, Miss Olivia. The power of appointment could only be used in favour of a husband. If Miss Cara were to die unmarried, the will provides for the major part of the estate to pass to your next sister, Mrs. Sayle, or her heirs, your own portion remaining just as it is at present.” I have a very good memory, and I have always remembered just what he said. But Olivia was very angry indeed. She waited until he had gone, and then she said our grandfather hadn’t any right to make a will like that, and what was the good of my having the money when I didn’t know how to manage it, and she ought to come in before Candida’s children. Oh, my dear, she said dreadful things! You see, our sister Candida died before Papa did, and Olivia said she hoped Candida’s children would die too, and then she would come into her own. Of course she didn’t mean it, but it was a dreadful thing to say.’

Candida felt as if something cold had touched her. It didn’t come from Miss Cara – her hand was burning hot. It let go of her wrist now and went up to touch the carefully ordered hair, incongruously black above the ravaged face. She had stopped crying, and though her eyelids were reddened and the smooth powdered surface of her skin had been impaired, she had a relaxed look.

‘It’s nice to have someone to talk to,’ she said in quite a pleased voice. ‘But you won’t tell Olivia, will you?’

Chapter Ten

On the following day when Candida had finished her driving lesson she found Stephen Eversley waiting for her, his car parked outside the garage. He said briefly,

‘Get in – we’re going for a run.’

‘But, Stephen – ’

‘I want to talk to you. Get in!’

He was banging the door and backing out before she had managed to produce any of her reasons for wanting to get back early. By the time she did produce them they were threading one of Retley’s narrower streets, and she couldn’t very well cavil at his abrupt, ‘I can’t talk in traffic.’ A sideways glance showed her a frowning profile which she had not seen before. Under a slight surface glow there was the feeling that she rather liked a man who took his own way. Not tiresomely or all the time, but when occasion required. She sat with her hands in her lap and just the beginnings of a smile in her eyes until they ran out upon an open road with fields on either side. When she looked at him again the profile was as before. She said in her sweetest voice,

‘May I speak now? Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere where we can talk.’

‘What I was trying to say when you wouldn’t let me was that I ought to get back.’

‘Not yet. I want to talk to you.’

‘Won’t this do?’

‘No, it won’t. When I say talk, I mean properly – not with a dozen ears flapping in that damned café, or when I ought to have my mind on the road!’

‘There doesn’t seem to be anything on the road except ourselves, does there?’

He laughed angrily.

‘There might be at any moment! I’ve got a feeling you could be aggravating enough to distract me from three motor-buses abreast!’

‘Is that a compliment? And do I say thank you?’

‘No, it isn’t, and you don’t! We’re going to park here.’

The road had developed those wide grass verges which foreign visitors so justly consider to be wasteful of land which might be growing something of a more edible nature than grass. Stephen drove on to a green level stretch and stopped the car. Then he turned to face her and said,

‘All right – now we can get going.’