Victoria Holt: The Secret Woman

I felt as though I were caught in a web, as though the house was laughing at me. “You belong to us now!” it seemed to say. “Don’t imagine because your Aunt Charlotte has filled the house with these alien ghosts you have ousted us.” What foolish thoughts. It was fortunate that I kept them to myself. Only Ellen and Mrs. Buckle thought me an odd child, but even Mrs. Morton had some sympathy for me. I heard her say to Miss Beringer that people shouldn’t have children unless they could look after them. It wasn’t natural for fathers and mothers to be on one side of the world and their children on another in the hands of those who knew nothing of them and paid more attention to a piece of wood — and often riddled with the worm at that! As for me I had to face the fact that I should never see my mother again. I kept remembering scraps of her conversation; I idealized her beauty. I saw her in the figures on a Grecian vase, in the carving of a tallboy, in the gilded beauty supporting a seventeenth-century mirror. I would never forget her; the hope of that wonderful life she had promised me had gone and I was certain now that the ugly duckling would never turn into a swan. Sometimes when I had looked into old mirrors — some of metal, others of mottled glass — I had seen her face, not my own rather sallow one with the heavy dark hair which was the same color as hers. My deep-set dark eyes were like hers too; but the resemblance ended there for my face was too thin, my nose a little too sharp. How was it that two people who were fundamentally alike could look so different? I lacked her sparkle, her gaiety, but when she was alive I could imagine myself growing like her. After she was dead I could not.

“It’s a long time since you’ve seen her,” soothed Ellen, seeking to offer comfort with the hot milk.

“Children forget, quick as lightning,” I heard her say to Mrs. Buckle.

And I thought: Never. Never. I shall always remember.

Everyone tried to be kind — even Aunt Charlotte. She offered me the greatest consolation she could think of.

“I have to go along to see a piece. I’ll take you with me. It’s at Castle Crediton.”

“Are they selling something?” I stammered.

“Why else should we go there?” demanded Aunt Charlotte.

For the first time since my mother’s death I forgot her. I was sorry afterward and apologized to my reflection in the mirror where instead of my own face I made myself see hers, but I could not help the excitement which came to me at the prospect of visiting Castle Crediton. I remembered vividly the first time I had seen it and my mother’s comments and I wanted to know more about that important family.

It was fortunate that I had learned to hide my emotions and that Aunt Charlotte had no notion of how I was feeling as we drove under the stone gatehouse and looked up at the conical turrets.

“Fake!” snapped Aunt Charlotte. It was the biggest insult she could offer.

I wanted to laugh when I entered that house. The inside of Castle Crediton should have been the inside of the Queen’s House. The Creditons had made a great effort to produce a Tudor interior and had succeeded. There was the big hall with long refectory table on which stood a large pewter bowl. There were firearms on the walls and the inevitable suit of armor at the foot of the staircase. Aunt Charlotte saw only the furniture.

“I supplied the table,” she said. “It came from a castle in Kent.”

“It looks very well here,” I commented.

Aunt Charlotte did not answer. The manservant returned to say that Lady Crediton would receive Miss Brett. He looked at me questioningly and Aunt Charlotte said quickly: “You may wait here for a while!” in such a manner as to defy the servant to object.

So I waited in the hall and I looked at the thick stone walls partially covered with tapestries — lovely French Gobelin type in beautiful blues and stone color. I went up and examined one. It depicted the labors of Hercules. I was studying it intently when a voice behind me said: “Like it?”

I turned and saw that a man was standing close to me. I was startled. He looked so tall and I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking of me. The color heightened in my cheeks but I said coolly, “It’s beautiful. Is it really Gobelin?”

He lifted his shoulders and I noticed the interesting way his eyes seemed to turn up at the corners when his lips did. He was scarcely handsome but with the blond hair bleached by sun at the temples and blue eyes that were rather small and crinkled as though he had lived in brilliant sunlight, his was the sort of face which I felt I would not easily forget.

“I might ask,” he said, “what you are doing here. But I won’t … unless you want to tell me.”

“I’m waiting for my aunt, Miss Brett. She has come to see some furniture. We’re from the Queen’s House,” I said.

“Oh, that place!”

I fancied there was a hint of mockery in his voice and was warm in its defense. “It’s a fascinating house. Queen Elizabeth once slept there.”

“Such a habit that lady had for sleeping in other people’s houses!”

“Well, she slept in ours, which is more …”

“Than you can say for this one. No, we’re imitation Norman, I admit. But we’re firm and solid and this is the house that will withstand the winds of time. We’re built on a rock.”

“Ours has proved it could do that. But I find it very interesting here.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

“Do you live here?”

“When I’m ashore. Mostly I’m not.”

“Oh … you’re a sailor.”

“How discerning you are.”

“I’m not really about people. Though I am learning about some things.”

“Tapestries?”

“And old furniture.”

“Going to follow in Auntie’s footsteps?”

“No. No!” I spoke with great vehemence.

“I expect you will. Most of us go where we’re led. And think what you already know about Gobelin tapestry.”

“Did you … go where you were led?”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling in a manner which, for no reason I could think of, I found very attractive. “I suppose you could say that I did.”

I was filled with a desire to know more about him. He was just the sort of person I should have expected to meet in Castle Crediton and he excited me as though he were an unusual piece of furniture. “What should I call you?” I asked.

“Should you call me?”

“I mean … I should like to know your name.”

“It’s Redvers Stretton — usually known as Red.”

“Oh!” I was disappointed and showed it.

“You don’t like it?”

“Well, Red is not very dignified.”

“Don’t forget it is really Redvers which you must admit is more so.”

“I’ve never heard that name before.”

“I must say in its defense that it’s a good old West Country name.”

“Is it? And I thought it should go with Crediton.”

That amused him secretly. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

I had a notion that he was laughing at me and that I was being very naïve.

He said: “I must ask yours, mustn’t I, otherwise you may think me impolite.”

“I shouldn’t but if you really want to know …”

“Oh, I do.”

“It’s Anna Brett.”

“Anna Brett!” He repeated it as though memorizing it. “How old are you, Miss Anna Brett?”

“I’m twelve.”

“So young … and so knowledgeable.”

“It’s living in the Queen’s House.”

“It must be like living in a museum.”

“It is in a way.”

“It makes you old before your time. You make me feel young and frivolous.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be. I like it. I’m seven years older than you.”