I was not supposed to know that it was there.
But when no one was about, generally at midday, when the servants would be eating, I used to go round by the back and climb up the steps to the side door leading into the long room, and there I would see the great tree, standing in its tub at the far end, and stacked against the wall, ready to place in rows, were the long trestle tables for the dinner.
I never helped to decorate until my first holiday from Harrow.
The promotion was tremendous. I had never felt so proud.
As a little lad I had sat beside Ambrose at the top table, but on my promotion I headed a table of my own.
Now, once again, I gave my orders to the woodmen, in fact I went out myself into the woods to choose the tree.
Rachel was all delight.
No celebration could have pleased her better.
She held earnest consultation with Seecombe and the cook, she visited the larders, and the storage chambers, and the gamehouse; she even prevailed upon my male household to allow two girls from the Barton to come up and make French pastry under her supervision.
All was excitement, and mystery too; because I would have it that she should not see the tree, and she insisted that I must not know what would be put before us for the dinner.
Packages arrived for her, and were whisked away upstairs.
When I knocked upon her boudoir door I would hear crackling of paper, and then, an age afterwards it seemed, her voice would answer me,
“Come in.”
And she would be kneeling on the floor, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, with a covering flung over several objects strewn about the carpet, and she would tell me not to look.
I was back to childhood once again, back to the old fever of standing in my nightshirt tiptoe on the stairs, hearing the murmur of voices from below, and Ambrose coming suddenly from the library and laughing at me,
“Go up to bed, you rascal, I’ll flay the hide off you.”
One thing gave me anxiety.
What could I give Rachel for a present?
I took a day in Truro, browsing in the bookshops for a book on gardens, but could find nothing.
And what was more, the books from Italy she had brought with her were finer than any I could give her.
I had no idea what present pleased a woman.
My godfather used to buy stuff to make a gown, when he gave anything to Louise, but Rachel wore mourning only. I could not give her that.
Once, I remember, Louise had been much delighted with a locket that he had brought from London.
She used to wear it of an evening, when she ate Sunday dinner with us.
And then the solution came to me.
There must be something, among the jewels belonging to my family, that I could give to Rachel.
They were not kept at home in the safe, with the Ashley documents and papers, but at the bank.
Ambrose had thought it best, in case of fire.
I had no knowledge what was there.
I had a hazy recollection of going to the bank one day with Ambrose, when I was very young, and of his picking up some necklace and telling me, smiling, that it had belonged to our grandmother, and that my mother had worn it on her wedding day, but for the day only, as a loan, my father not being in the direct line of succession, and that one day, if I behaved myself well, Ambrose would permit me to give it to my wife.
I realized, now, that whatever there was in the bank belonged to me.
Or would do, in three months’ time; but that was quibbling.
My godfather would know, of course, what jewels there were, but he had gone up to Exeter on business and would not be home until Christmas Eve, when he and Louise were invited to the dinner.
I determined to go to the bank myself and demand to see the jewels.
Mr. Couch received me with his usual courtesy, and taking me into his private room, facing the harbor, he listened to my request.
“I take it Mr. Kendall would have no objection?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I said impatiently, “the matter is quite understood.” Which was untruthful, but at twenty-four, within a few months of my birthday, to have to ask my godfather for permission to do every little thing was quite ridiculous.
And it riled me.
Mr. Couch sent to the vaults for the jewels.
They came up, in sealed boxes.
He broke the seal, and, placing a cloth on the desk in front of him, laid the jewels out upon it, one by one.
I had no idea the collection was so fine.
There were rings, bracelets, earrings, brooches; and many of the pieces went together, such as a ruby headpiece for the hair and ruby earrings to go with it, likewise a sapphire bracelet and pendant and ring.
Yet as I looked at them, not liking to touch them even with my finger, I remembered, with disappointment, that Rachel was in mourning, and wore no colored stones.
If I presented her with these, it would be pointless; she would have no use for them.
Then Mr. Couch opened the last box, and drew from it a collar of pearls. There were four strands. They fastened round the neck like a band, with a single diamond clasp.
I recognized it instantly.
It was the necklace that Ambrose had shown me as a child.
“I like this,” I said, “this is the finest thing in the whole collection.
I remember my cousin Ambrose showing it to me.”