“How far off is the home farm?” asked my mother.

“About half a mile. It’s close to Jermyn Priory…that’s the Jermyns’ place.”

“The enemy,” I said.

She laughed. “Oh, you’ve heard then.”

My mother wanted to know what we were talking about.

“There’s a feud between the two families,” Matilda explained. “It’s been going on for years. We’re not sure what it’s about. The details are lost in the past, but somehow it remains.”

“And they live nearby?”

“The estates border on each other.”

“That’s very close.”

“Not really. Jermyns is vast…bigger than this, and we are by no means small. We rarely see them.”

“And if you do,” I said, “I suppose you behave as though you don’t.”

“We might give a nod of recognition, but no more. I never heard what it was all about. It goes back far into the past.”

“You’d think it would be forgotten.”

“We Cornish keep these things going. We stick to the old ways and traditions. You English are inclined to let such things slide away. We don’t.”

“You mean you bear grudges?” I asked.

My mother looked at me sharply. I was noted for speaking my mind.

“Well,” said Matilda, “I suppose that sort of thing becomes a habit.”

“I wonder what it was all about,” said my mother.

Matilda lifted her shoulders and the matter was dropped as we examined the house.

“The main building is Elizabethan,” said Matilda. “But the west wing was added after the Restoration and the east after that…so it is a bit of a hotchpotch of periods.”

“Which makes it more interesting,” I said, and my mother agreed.

We first went to the great hall, which was one of the oldest parts of the house. It must have looked much the same when it was built. On its stone walls hung weapons from the past, perhaps to warn any intruders that this was a warlike family accustomed to defending itself. There was a long table.

“Cromwellian,” said Matilda, “and the chairs date from the reign of Charles II. The family were fiercely Royalist so that they had a bad time during the Protectorate, but all was well with the return of the King.”

Leading from the hall was the chapel. It was small with an altar, pulpit, and a row of pews. There was an atmosphere of chill in the place. I looked up at the waggon roof with its stone corbels, and then at the carved angels who appeared to be supporting the pulpit. I could imagine the family’s gathering here in times of tribulation—and rejoicing, too. A great deal would have happened in this chapel.

“It is not used a great deal now,” said Matilda. “James—Dermot’s father—says that when he was young there were prayers every morning and all the servants had to attend. He laughs and says he always declared that when he came into possession people should be left to look after their own souls without any help from the Tregarlands. James can be a little irreverent at times.” She was smiling indulgently.

We mounted the main staircase and were in the long gallery. Here were pictures of Tregarlands, which must have been painted over the last three hundred years. I recognized James Tregarland. I could detect that mischievous look in his eyes which I had noticed at our first meeting.

Matilda stood looking at him rather sadly.

“He has always lived very well,” she said. “He was one to enjoy life. He married late in life. She was quite young…his wife, I mean. She was delicate, though. She died when Dermot was very young.”

“And he didn’t marry again.”

She gazed at the picture. I could not understand the expression in her eyes.

She shook her head firmly. “It would have been the best thing,” she said. “The right thing…”

“Well,” said my mother. “It has all worked out very well. You look after them beautifully.”

“I do my best. If we take this staircase we come to the upper rooms.”

There were several bedrooms—one in which Charles I slept during the Civil War.

It was an interesting morning.

Our visit, which was to be of a week’s duration, was nearly over. During the day a strong wind blew up and by the evening it had become a gale.

We had heard them speak of the ferocity of the gales and during the morning my mother and I had gone into Poldown.

It was a charming place with the small river cutting the little town in half, so there were East and West Poldown.

In the harbor the fishing boats were tethered; they were bobbing up and down because of the rising wind. The Saucy Jane, The Mary Ann, The Beatrice, and Wonder Girl.

“Why,” I asked my mother, “are boats feminine?”

“Not all,” she answered. “Look. There’s The Jolly Roger.”

Seated on the stones the fishermen were mending their nets; overhead the gulls screeched, swooped, and rose again; the wind caught at our skirts and pulled at our hair.

Although we had been here such a short time, some of the inhabitants of Poldown seemed to know us. I had heard us referred to as “They folk up to Tregarland’s.” We walked through what was a sort of high street with shops on either side in which were displayed souvenirs…shells, ashtrays with “Poldown” printed on them, crockery, glassware, and little figures of strange creatures which I understood were piskies. There were buckets, spades, nets, and swimming gear. A smell of baking bread and cooking pervaded the air. We saw Cornish pasties and cakes for sale. It was a busy little place.

We bought a few things for the sheer pleasure of hearing the people speak.

“How be enjoying Poldown?” we were asked.

We told them very much.

“Ah, it be grand up there in the big house, certain sure. There be a real gale working up. I wouldn’t want to be out on the sea as it’ll be tonight…not for a farm, I wouldn’t. Old Nick himself ’ull be out there, looking for them as ’ull keep his fires going.”

We listened and thought it was all very quaint. Then we walked back to the house. It was hard going uphill against the wind which was blowing in from the south-west, and we were quite breathless when we reached the house.

Matilda said: “I’m glad you’re back. It’s no day to be out. I was afraid you might be blown off the cliff.”

That night we heard the full force of the gale. I looked down from my window on a sea which had become a seething torrent. The waves rose high and flung themselves against the house with such fury that I felt it might be battered to pieces. I could not believe that this raging fury was the same sea which a few days before had been so calm and pellucid…reflecting an azure blue sky. It was possessed of a maniacal anger and seemed intent on destruction.

I could not sleep. I lay listening to it and it was not until the dawn came that it started to abate.

The first thing I noticed when I awoke was that the wind had dropped. I went to the window. There were still frothy white horses riding the waves and I saw debris on the shore—broken pieces of wood and seaweed.

I dressed and went into Dorabella’s room.

“What a night!” she said. “I thought it was going to blow the house away.”

“We’ve now experienced one of the gales which they are always talking about.”

“It’s all right now, though. Dermot is going to take me into Plymouth today…for a special reason.” She looked a little arch.

“Ah,” I said. “The ring. Is that it?”

“How did you guess?”

“You know I always guess your thoughts. I detect that acquisitive look.”

“Our engagement ring! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes,” I said. “Life can be wonderful.”

“What will you do?”

“I’d rather like to go for a ride this afternoon.”

“With whom?”

“I rather fancy my own company.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes. I would like to take dear old Starlight. That’s her name, isn’t it?”

“You mean the chestnut mare?”

“Yes. I like her and I don’t think she is averse to me.”