“She wouldn’t realize what it is all about,” said my mother. “She is only six years old.”

“She’s rather knowing,” I said.

“But to own a house. What could Sophie have been thinking of!”

“Sophie did not think very clearly on the best of occasions,” added my father. “We’ll have to make an effort to find the child. The best thing would be to sell the house and bank the money for her till she comes of age. I’ll see the solicitor and get his advice.”

“I wonder who will buy it?” I murmured.

“Wait and see,” said my father. “In any case I shall be glad to be shut of the place.”

“Do you feel it is haunted and brings a curse on those who live in it?” I asked.

“I think it’s a damned draughty inconvenient house, that’s what I think of it. And nothing will please me more than to be rid of it… ghosts and all.”

“Some people like that sort of thing,” I said.

Claudine met my eyes and looked away. She felt very strongly about the house, almost as though she herself had had some uncanny experience there. So Enderby was going to pass out of the family.

I wondered who would come there next.

The Blind Girl

FURTHER EFFORTS WERE MADE to trace Tamarisk without success. It did emerge that the gypsies may have left and gone to Ireland which they had on other occasions.

My father shrugged his shoulders and after consulting with the solicitor, it was decided that for the time being Enderby was to be let as it was, if a tenant could be found to take it until a decision was reached.

Enderby was shut up; the servants were scattered; some of them came into our household and some went to Grasslands. Some of our servants went over once a week to keep the place in order—always in twos and threes I noticed. Not one of them cared to go alone. The house’s reputation had become slightly more evil since the death of Aunt Sophie, and old rumours were revived.

“We had better put a stop to that,” said my father, “otherwise we shall never find a tenant.”

Jeanne herself often went to the house. She had moved to a cottage on the estate which happened to be empty. She was undecided about her future but I believed that one day she would return to France.

In the meantime the days were slipping past. My father said one day at dinner that he would have to pay a visit to London. He would be away for a week or so.

“You’ll come with me, Lottie,” he said.

“But of course,” replied my mother.

He looked at me. “And I wonder if my darling daughter would deign to honour us with her presence.”

“You know I should love to.”

“Well, that’s settled. We’ll go as soon as you can get your fripperies together.”

“A week,” I said.

“Too long. We are leaving on Thursday.”

“You always do these things in a great hurry,” protested my mother.

“Procrastination is the thief of time.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” I said.

My father turned appealingly to David. “The two of them line up against me. Did a man ever have such a wife and daughter!”

David and Claudine smiled benignly at us. His softness was all the more noticeable because it was for us alone.

How easily I could understand my parents. No inhibitions, no brooding grief such as Aunt Sophie had suffered. I was lucky. I never wanted to leave them. Edward Barrington was hoping that I would marry him. He did not actually ask me again but I could see the hope in his eyes.

It was a happy state of affairs. I was flattered to be so desired as a wife and I often thought I should accept his proposal; at the same time I did not want to leave my home. I liked to be there close to my parents all the time. I should have to feel very attracted by someone to want to leave them.

We left Eversleigh in the carriage, which was the most comfortable way of long distance travel.

“We should set out early and try to make the journey in two days,” said my father.

We made good progress on the first day and did five miles more than we had believed possible, but as darkness was about an hour away my father said we had better look out for a good coaching inn, which we did and that was how we came to the Green Man.

It was a charming inn set back from the road, clearly displaying the sign which depicted a man clad in green.

“This looks a likely place,” said my father. “Stop here, Jennings.”

The postilion descended and went into the inn while we remained in the carriage.

“Let’s hope they have rooms here,” said my mother. “I am not eager to continue after dark.”

The postilion emerged with the host who bowed obsequiously. Beside him was his wife, beaming a welcome.

“We are honoured,” said the host. “It is Mr. Frenshaw and his lady wife and daughter. You shall have the best rooms in the inn, my lord. If we had known … As it is there is good roast beef and chicken pie only … If we had been warned of such nobility …”

My father held up a hand.

“Your good roast beef will suit us quite well,” he said. “And we shall need two rooms—your best, of course.”

I smiled fondly at my father. I supposed his fame had spread to every inn on the road from Eversleigh to London. Of course it was only necessary to look at him to sense his importance.

As we stepped inside the inn parlour, I noticed a man sitting there drinking from a flagon. He wore a stylish brown coat and there was a very white cravat at his throat. His brown beaver hat was on the table beside him. I judged him to be in his mid twenties; he was quite clearly interested in our arrival.

“First we will see the rooms,” said my father. “And how soon can we sup?”

“When you wish, my lord, sir. Whenever is your wish. My wife will make sure that you are well served. You will wish to eat privately, will you not?”

“That would please me.”

As we were being led towards the stairs I looked round and noticed that the man in the inn parlour continued to show interest. He caught my eye and half smiled. I looked away quickly.

The rooms were pleasant—a double one for my parents at the. front of the inn, and a smaller one for me at the back. Their windows looked onto the road, mine over the stables to woods and fields.

My father said the rooms would be adequate and when the innkeeper retired, telling us that supper would be served in a small room leading from the inn parlour, my father added that we had been fortunate to find such a place.

“They seem to know you,” said my mother.

“I have travelled this way for years and stayed at a number of inns. People talk. Now you two will want to wash the grime of the journey from your faces. When you’ve done so we’ll eat. Then I think an early night and a good sleep. We’ll travel on at daybreak.”

Water was brought by a rosy-cheeked girl; and soon we were ready. As we were ushered into the private room I saw again the man who had been drinking in the parlour. He gave me a bow as though we were old acquaintances. I lightly inclined my head.

My mother whispered: “He looks as though he believes he has met us before.”

My father replied in a rather audible voice which the man might have heard: “It’s wise not to scrape up acquaintance in inns. One never knows what sort of rogue one can get saddled with.” The door closed on us. We were in a small room where the table was laid for three and hot soup was being ladled into bowls.

“I do hope he didn’t hear you,” I said.

My father shrugged that aside. “It’s true,” he said. “Now let’s see what the food is like at the Green Man.”

It was quite good and after we had eaten we retired to our rooms.

“Don’t forget,” said my father. “An early start. I’ve explained to mine host that we want a quick breakfast at daybreak. He has promised it shall be ready.”

We said goodnight and went to our rooms.

I felt rather tired but disinclined to go to bed immediately. It was always difficult to sleep in strange beds and I did not want the night to seem too long.