There was something welcome in the sight of those raised sashes, with the curtains softly moving, and the thought of all the rooms behind the windows, known to me and loved.
The smoke rose from the chimneys, tall and straight.
Old Don, the retriever, too ancient and stiff to walk with me and the younger dogs, scratched on the gravel under the library windows, and then turning his head towards me slowly wagged his tail as I drew near.
It came upon me strongly and with force, and for the first time since I had learned of Ambrose’s death, that everything I now saw and looked upon belonged to me.
I need never share it with anyone living.
Those walls and windows, that roof, the bell that struck seven as I approached, the whole living entity of the house was mine, and mine alone.
The grass beneath my feet, the trees surrounding me, the hills behind me, the meadows, the woods, even the men and women farming the land yonder, were all part of my inheritance; they all belonged.
I went indoors and stood in the library, my back to the open fireplace, my hands in my pockets.
The dogs came in as was their custom, and lay down at my feet.
Seecombe came to ask me if there were any orders for Wellington, for the morning.
Did I want the horses and the carriage, or should he saddle Gypsy for me?
No, I told him, I would give no orders tonight. I would see Wellington myself after breakfast.
I wished to be called at my usual time.
He answered, “Yes, sir,” and left the room.
Master Philip had gone forever.
Mr. Ashley had come home.
It was a strange feeling. In a sense it made me humble, and at the same time oddly proud.
I was aware of a sort of confidence and of a strength that I had not known before, and a new elation.
It seemed to me that I felt as a soldier might feel on being given command of a battalion; this sense of ownership, of pride, and of possession too, came to me, as it might do to a senior major, after having deputized for many months and years in second place.
But, unlike a soldier, I would never have to give up my command.
It was mine for life.
I believe that when I had this realization, standing there before the library fire, I knew a moment of happiness that I have never had in life, before or since.
Like all such moments it came swiftly, and as swiftly passed again.
Some sound of day by day broke the spell: perhaps a dog stirred, an ember fell from the fire, or a servant moved overhead as he went to close the windows—I don’t remember what it was. All I remember is the feeling of confidence which I had that night, as though something long sleeping had stirred inside me and now come to life. I went early to bed, and slept without once dreaming.
My godfather, Nick Kendall, came over the following day, bringing Louise with him.
As there were no close relatives to summon, and only bequests to Seecombe and the other servants, with the customary donations to the poor in the parish, the widows, and the orphans, and the whole of his estate and property was left to me, Nick Kendall read the will alone to me, in the library.
Louise took herself off for a walk in the grounds.
In spite of the legal language, the business seemed simple and straightforward.
Except for one thing.
The Italian Rainaldi had been right.
Nick Kendall was appointed my guardian, because the estate did not become virtually mine until I was twenty-five.
“It was a belief of Ambrose’s,” said my godfather, taking off his spectacles as he handed me the document to read for myself, “that no young man knows his own mind until he turns twenty-five.
You might have grown up with a weakness for drink or gambling or women, and this twenty-five-year clause made a safeguard.
I helped him to draw the will when you were still at Harrow, and though we both knew that none of these tendencies had developed yet Ambrose preferred to keep the clause.
‘It can’t hurt Philip,’ he always said, ‘and will teach him caution.’
Well, there we are, and there’s nothing to be done about it.
In point of fact it won’t affect you, except that you will have to call upon me for money, as you always have done, for the estate accounts and for your personal use, for a further seven months.
Your birthday is in April, isn’t it?”
“You should know,” I said, “you were my sponsor.”
“A funny little worm you were too,” he said with a smile, “staring with puzzled eyes at the parson. Ambrose was just down from Oxford.
He pinched your nose to make you cry, shocking his aunt, your mother.
Afterwards he challenged your poor father to a pulling race, and they rowed from the castle to Lostwithiel, getting drenched to the skin the pair of them.
Ever felt the lack of parents, Philip?
It’s been hard on you, I often think, without your mother.”
“I don’t know,” I said,
“I’ve never thought about it much.
I never wanted anyone but Ambrose.”
“It was wrong, all the same,” he said.
“I used to tell Ambrose so, but he never listened to me.
There should have been someone in the house, a housekeeper, a distant relative, anyone.