The Landower Legacy by Victoria Holt Page B

fleetingly if he were younger than I had at first thought. There was an almost childishness about him; his opaque eyes looked so innocent. I took a liking to him on the spot. As we passed through the gates I had a good look at the gatehouse with its picturesque thatched roof; and then I saw the garden. Two things struck me; the number of beehives and the colourful array of flowers. It was breathtaking. I wanted to pause and look but we were past in a few minutes.
    “What a lovely garden!” I said. “And the beehives, too.”
    “Oh, Jamie be the beekeeper hereabouts. His honey … ‘tis said to be second to none. He be proud of it and that fond of the bees. I do declare he knows ‘em all. They be like little children to him. I’ve seen the tears in his eyes when any one of ‘em comes to grief. He be the beekeeper all right.”
    The drive was about half a mile long and as we rounded the bend we came face to face with Tressidor Manor—that beautiful Elizabethan house which had caused such bitterness in the family.
    It was grand—but less so than the one we had just passed. It was red brick and immediately recognizable as Tudor—and Elizabethan at that, because from where we were it was possible to define the E shape. There was a gatehouse, but it looked more ornamental than that of Landower, and it formed the middle strut of the E; two wings protruded at either side. The chimneys were in pairs and resembled classic columns, and the mullioned windows were topped with ornamental mouldings.
    We went through the gatehouse into a courtyard.
    “Here we be,” said Joe leaping down. “Oh, here be Betty Bolsover. Reckon she have heard us drive in.”
    A rosy-cheeked maid appeared and bobbed a curtsey.
    “You be Miss Tressidor and Miss Bell. Miss Tressidor ‘er be waiting for ‘ee. Please to follow me.”
    “I’ll see to the baggage, ladies,” said Joe. “Here, Betty, go and get one of ‘em from the stables to come and give me a hand.”
    “When I’ve took the ladies in, Joe,” said Betty; and we followed her.
    We passed through the door and were in a panelled hall. Pictures hung on the walls. Ancestors? I wondered. Betty was leading us towards a staircase, and there standing at the top of it was Cousin Mary.
    I knew who she was at once. She was such an authoritative figure; moreover there was a certain resemblance to my father. She was tall and angular, very plainly dressed in black with a white cap on her pepper-and-salt hair, which was dragged right back from a face which was considerably weatherbeaten.
    “Ah,” she said. She had a deep voice, almost masculine, and it seemed to boom through the hall. “Come along, Caroline. And Miss Bell. You must be very hungry. Are you not? But of course you are. And you have had an exhausting journey. You can go now, Betty. Come along up. They’ll see to the baggage. There’ll be food right away. Something hot. In my sitting room. I thought that best.”
    She stood there while we mounted the stairs.
    As we came close she took me by the shoulders and looked at me and although I thought she was going to embrace me, she did not. I soon learned that Cousin Mary was not prone to demonstrations of affection. She just peered into my face and laughed.
    “You’re not much like your father,” she said. “More like your mother perhaps. All to the good. We can’t be called a good-looking lot.” She chuckled and released me, and as I had been about to respond to her embrace I felt a little deflated. She turned to Miss Bell and shook her by the hand. “Glad to meet you, Miss Bell. You have delivered her safely into my hands, eh? Come along. Come along. Hot soup, I thought. Food … and then I thought bed. You have to be off again in the morning. You should have had a few days’ rest here.”
    “Thank you so much, Miss Tressidor,” said Miss Bell, “but I am expected back.”
    “Robert Tressidor’s arrangements, I understand. Just like him. Drop the child and turn at once.