Philippa Carr: Song of the Siren

That was what was so hard to bear, this lack of interest in life.

But I did find that I was listening more to Abby. I rarely commented and never asked questions but when she mentioned the strange pair at Enderby I did feel a slight quickening of interest.

I had taken to riding a little. I never went far because I became so tired. But when I went to the stables and Tomtit nuzzled against me and whinnied and showed so clearly how happy he was to see me I felt I would like to ride again. And how he tossed back his head and expressed delight in every quiver of his body when I mounted, so I thought I must ride now and then … because of Tomtit.

I had behaved so badly to him on that night. I had left him shivering in the outhouse while I had gone into the forbidden wood. I had forgotten him. That was the worst way to treat an animal.

He bore me no malice. When I first approached him, full of remorse wondering what reception I should get from him, he had shown me so clearly that he had forgotten my carelessness towards him. Malice? There was nothing of that. There was only that fond devotion and the bond between us was as strong as ever.

So I rode out now and then and I used to let Tomtit take me where he would. He never galloped; he rarely cantered; he would walk with me gently and when I was tired I’d bend forward and say to him: “Take me home, Tomtit.” And he would turn from where we were going and we’d take the shortest cut home.

I think my parents would have been anxious if I had gone out with any other horse. They used to say: “She’s safe with Tomtit. He’ll look after her.”

He was a wonderful horse, my dear friend Tomtit.

On that morning as usual I gave him his head and he led me to Enderby Hall, and when we reached there a desire came to me to visit Belle’s grave.

I dismounted, which was an unusual procedure because I did not usually do that until I was back in the stables.

I tethered Tomtit to a stake and I whispered to him: “I won’t forget you this time. I’ll soon be back.”

So I went into what I used to think of as the forbidden wood. How different it was now. The gloom had vanished. Over what must have been Belle’s grave the roses bloomed in the summer.

It was my mother’s private garden now.

Much of the undergrowth had been cut away. It was beautiful—an oasis in the heart of the country. A garden of roses where once there had been gloom.

I stood for a moment thinking of Belle, whose curiosity had brought about her death; dear Belle, she had been beautiful and friendly and good. Her death would have been quick, though, and now I knew why it had happened I could not blame my father.

I turned away and started back to Tomtit, but the temptation to take one look at the house was too much for me. The wind had risen and was taking the last of the leaves off the trees. I liked the wind. It blew away the mists which were so prevalent at this time of the year.

There was the house—gloomier than ever. I thought of the misanthrope who lived in it now. It must be a house which suited his mood.

Then suddenly I was seeing it all again so vividly—Matt there with Carlotta. I felt a wave of pity for myself and I realised my eyes were wet. I took out a handkerchief to wipe my eyes. The wind caught it and carried it along the drive to the house. I ran to retrieve it, and, like a mischievous child playing tricks, just as I was about to pick it up the wind lifted it and carried it along the drive.

Thus I penetrated farther than I should and as at last I picked it up, I heard a growl and a dog came bounding toward me.

He was a large black Newfoundland and he was coming straight for me.

I was trespassing. I remembered, as one does on such occasions, that Abby had said something about a dog who did not like people who pried … and I might be suspected of that. But I knew dogs … all animals in fact. There was a special camaraderie between us which was recognised on both sides.

I murmured: “Good dog … good dog … I’m your friend …”

He hesitated. He looked very fierce. Then he saw the handkerchief in my hand and it seemed as though he thought I might have stolen it for he caught and held it; and as he did so he nipped my hand.

There was blood on the handkerchief.

I did not let go of it. I stood there holding it while he held the other end in his teeth.

“We should be good friends,” I murmured. “You’re a good dog to protect your master’s house.”

I put out a hand to pat him.

A voice close by cried: “Don’t touch him.” Then: “Here, Daemon. Come here.”

The dog dropped the handkerchief and immediately walked towards the man who appeared.

Smith? I thought. Then I saw that he walked with a limp and I realised that I was in the presence of Jeremy Granthorn himself.

He looked at me with distaste.

“He would have bitten you … severely,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing only and my handkerchief fluttered away in the wind. I was trying to get it.”

“Well, you have it now.”

“Yes, thank you.”

I thought: What a disagreeable man. This was not how we behaved in the country. My mother would have called on him; he would have been invited to Eversleigh Court; but it was clear that he wished to be a hermit.

I said: “I am sorry to have intruded. But, you see, it was the wind. Good day.”

He said: “The dog nipped your hand.”

“It is nothing. My own fault, you will say, for coming where I shouldn’t.”

“It should be attended to at once.”

“I have a horse here. I live a very short distance away. At the Dower House. I shall be home very soon.”

“Nevertheless it should be attended to now.”

“Where?”

He waved his hand towards the house.

This was too much to miss. I was being given the opportunity of entering the house, to which, according to Abby and my parents, no one had yet been invited.

“Thank you,” I said.

It was a strange feeling to go into that Hall again.

I said: “You haven’t changed it at all.”

“Why should I?” he said.

“Most people like to imprint their own personalities on their houses.”

“This is just a place where I can live in peace and quiet,” he said.

“You certainly make sure of that. I feel I should not intrude.”

He did not say that I was not intruding as I expected him to. He just said: “Come. Sit down.”

So there I sat in that hall and I looked up to the haunted minstrels’ gallery and I thought it more dreary than it had ever been.

I heard a noise above. “Smith,” called Jeremy Granthorn. “Come here, Smith.”

Smith came and stared at me incredulously. He was as grim as his master and a few years older.

“The young lady has been bitten.”

“Trespassing,” said Smith.

My less than gracious host said, “Get some hot water … and a bandage or something.”

“Bandage?” said Smith.

“Find something.”

I rose. I said with hauteur: “I can see I am giving a great deal of trouble. It was only a nip. It was entirely my own fault, as you imply. I will go home. I shall then do what is necessary.”

“Sit down please,” said Jeremy Granthorn.

I obeyed.

I looked round the Hall and tried to make conversation. “My sister was the owner of this place. It was from her you bought it.”

He did not answer.

“And are you liking the house the neighbourhood?”

“It’s quiet … peaceful… almost always,” he said.

A reproach for my inquisitiveness? Heaven knew I was only asking polite questions.

Smith returned with a bowl of hot water, a cloth and some sort of liniment. There was also a strip of linen which looked as though it had been torn from something.