Виктория Холт: The Shadow of the Lynx

I had an overwhelming desire to see more. I started to run downhill and I did not stop until I stood before the tall wrought-iron gate.

This gate in itself was fascinating. I studied the intricate scrolls and mouldings; some white metal had been inlaid on the iron work on either side. I looked closer and saw that the decoration represented nuns. White Ladies, I thought; and I wondered whether it was the original gate which had stood there when there was a convent beyond it, long before the present house had been built. The grey stone wall stretched out on either side of the gates. Moss and lichen grew on it.

How I should have loved to open the gate and walk into those magic precincts. This was more than a passing fancy; it was an urge which I had great difficulty in restraining. But how could one walk into someone’s private house simply because it seemed the most fascinating place one had ever seen! I looked about me-There was a deep stillness everywhere. I felt completely alone. I remembered that Stirling had come this way. He would probably have passed this house without noticing it. I had decided that he would be lacking in imagination, and to him this would merely be a grey stone building; he would not think it exciting because centuries ago nuns in white robes had lived here. I wondered what it felt like to be shut away from the world; and I was suddenly interested and relieved to find that my thoughts had turned temporarily from my personal tragedy.

The wall was frustratingly high and as I walked along beside it I could only see the tower projecting above it. The view from the hilltop was much more revealing—only from that vantage point there was a sense of remoteness. Here one might be closer but the wall shut one out.

It seemed strange that when I was on the verge of going to a new country I should be so intrigued by an old house which I had never seen before and it seemed unlikely I should ever see again. Perhaps it was because I had been indifferent to everything for so long that I seized on this and believed I was more interested than I actually was.

As I walked, beside the wall I heard voices.

“Ellen has brought out the tea, Lucie.” It was a clear high voice, very pleasant and I longed to see its owner.

“I will see if Lady Cardew is ready,” said another voice, deeper, slightly husky.

They went on talking but their voices were lowered and I could not hear what they were saying. What sort of people, I wondered, lived in this house? I must discover. I was in such a strange mood that I had almost convinced myself that if I could see on the other side of the wall I would find two white-robed nuns—ghosts from the past.

An enormous oak tree spread its branches over the walls. Its acorns would surely fall on Whiteladies’ land. I studied the tree speculatively. I had not climbed a tree for some time. Such activities had not been encouraged at Danesworth House; but there was a fork which would make an adequate if not comfortable seat. I could not climb a tree. It was too undignified. Besides, what bad manners to spy on people. I fingered the soft silk scarf which my father had given me before he went to Australia; it was a soft shade of green and I loved it for itself in addition to the fact that it was one of his last gifts. I am sure he would have climbed the tree. Miss Emily would be horrified. That decided me—particularly as I heard the voices again.

“Are you feeling better. Mamma?” That was the clear young voice.

So I climbed to the fork of the tree which was just high enough to permit me to see over.

It was a beautiful scene. The grass was like green velvet, soft and smooth with an air of having been well tended through the centuries; there were flower beds containing roses and lavender; a fountain was throwing its silver spray over a white statue; the green shrubs had been cut into the shape of birds; a peacock strutted across the lawn displaying his magnificent tail while a plain little peahen followed in his glorious wake. It was a scene of utter peace. Close to the pond was a table laid for tea over which a big blue and white sunshade had been set; and seated at the table was a girl of about my age. She looked as though she were tall; she was certainly slender, a dainty Dresden figure. Her honey coloured hair hung in long ringlets down her back; her gown was of pale blue with white lace collar and cuffs. She fitted the scene perfectly. There was another woman; she must be Lucie, I decided. She was about ten years older than the girl; and in a bath chair was a woman whom I guessed to be “Mamma’, fair-haired like the girl, delicate and fragile-looking with the same Dresden quality.

“It’s pleasant in the shade. Mamma,” said the girl.

“I do hope so.” The voice was a little peevish.

“You know how the heat upsets me. Lucie, where are my smelling salts?”

I watched them talking together. Lucie had brought the chair closer to the girl who rose to make sure that the cushion behind Mamma’s head was in the best place. Lucie went across the lawn presumably to fetch the smelling salts. I imagined her to be a companion, a higher servant, perhaps a poor relation. Poor Lucie!

They were talking but I only heard their voices when the breeze carried them to me. This breeze, which could be strong when it blew, was intermittent. What happened next was due to it. The scarf about my neck had become loosened during my climb. I had not noticed this and as I leaned forward to see and hear better, it caught in a branch and was dragged from my neck. It hung lightly suspended on the tree but as I was about to take it a stronger gust of wind caught it and, snatching it from me, carried it over the wall mischievously as though to punish me for eavesdropping. It fluttered across the grass and came to rest close to the group at the tea table but they did not seem to see it.

I was dismayed, thinking of the occasion when my father had given it to me. I either had to call to them and ask them to give it to me or to lose it. I made up my mind that I could not shout to them from the tree. I would call at the house and concoct some story about its blowing over my head—which it had done—and I certainly would not tell them that inquisitiveness had made me climb a tree to spy on them.

I slid down to the foot of the tree and in my haste grazed my hand which started to bleed a little. While I was staring at it ruefully Stirling came towards me.

“Oak trees have, their uses,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well. You were spying on the tea party.”

“How could you know that unless you were spying too?”

“It’s less shocking for me to climb trees than girls, you know.”

“So you were spying on them.”

“No. Like you I was merely taking a polite look.”

“You were interested enough to climb a tree and look over the wall!”

“Let’s say my motives were similar to yours. But we have to retrieve the scarf. Come on. I’ll go with you. As your deputy-guardian I can’t allow you to enter a strange house alone.”

“How can we go in there?”

“Simple. You ask to see Lady Cardew and tell her that your scarf is lying on her beautiful lawn.”

“Do you think we should ask to see her? Perhaps we could tell one of the servants.”

“You are too retiring. No. We’ll go in boldly and ask for Lady Cardew.”

We had reached the gates. Stirling opened them and we went into a cobbled courtyard at the end of which was an archway. Stirling went through this; I followed. We were on the lawn.

I felt uneasy. This was most unconventional, but Stirling was unconventional and unused to our formal manners; and as we crossed the grass towards the party at the tea table and they looked up in blank astonishment, I realized how very extraordinary our intrusion must seem.