Eleanor. Sylvia Andrew

different places every hour of the working day, but suddenly she was terribly afraid that she was slowly but inexorably losing the battle.

      What nonsense! she chided herself. It only needed a little more patience, a touch more perseverance and energy. She was still tired after her long journey, but she would soon find the necessary energy and hope. Things would be better this year, she was sure. She threw back her shoulders and marched on up the drive.

      In the afternoon Cousin Louisa returned to her own home, in the next village, and after she had gone Mrs Southeran told Eleanor several times how kind, how good, how very helpful Cousin Louisa had been.

      ‘I’m sure she was, Mama—but why are you protesting so much? I already know how worthy Cousin Louisa is!’

      ‘That’s it! She’s worthy! Oh, Nell, I have been so bored! And I haven’t written a line since you left!’

      ‘Now that is serious. Well, I am back now and you must start immediately—where are your things? I’ll fetch them and you shall not leave your sofa until you have written at least ten lines! I shall be neither good nor kind until you comply!’

      Mrs Southeran was a poet with quite a reputation in the West Country, and even beyond. She wrote under a pseudonym and few of her neighbours knew of her talent, but writing was as necessary to her as breathing. The news that she had been neglecting it was worrying.

      ‘Don’t be too concerned, Nell. It wasn’t just because of Cousin Louisa or your absence. I’ve been doing some serious thinking and have even taken some action. Sit down, my dear. Now that we are alone again, I want to tell you something.’

      Her mother’s voice was so earnest that Eleanor’s heart missed a beat. Had the doctor been making gloomier prognostications again? ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left you! You’re feeling worse?’

      ‘It isn’t my health, it’s you! I’ve been worried over you for some time now, and while you’ve been away I’ve decided that we must do something about it. Running this house and estate is sapping all your energy…all your youth. Your life is taken up with worry and work and little else—’

      ‘Mama! I have just spent four weeks doing little else but enjoying myself!’

      ‘And when was the last time you left Stanyards before that? Or went to a ball or a party? Wore pretty dresses? You have forgotten, and so have I. Well, it must not continue—and I have taken steps to see that it does not.’

      ‘But I am quite happy living here and running Stan-yards! I don’t want to change anything—except perhaps to see you in better health again!’

      ‘Stanyards is destroying your youth and looks, Eleanor, and it is taking away my health. I know, I know what you are about to say! Stanyards has been in the Southeran family for four hundred years or more, and is steeped in tradition and history. But Tom’s death—’ Mrs Southeran’s voice faltered.

      ‘Don’t, Mama! Don’t talk about it! It will make you ill.’

      ‘I must! I have refused to face the consequences for far too long! When Tom was killed, Nell, the family name died out. You are not a man, however much you have played the man’s part since Tom died.’

      ‘And before,’ muttered Eleanor.

      ‘Yes, and before. It was a matter of regret to all of us that your brother never had your interest in Stanyards.’ Mrs Southeran paused again, but this time Eleanor made no effort to speak. How could she say anything, when her feelings were so hopelessly tangled? Even after seven years she still felt love and grief for her handsome, laughing brother, was still angry at the recklessness which had caused his death and still resentful that he had cared so little for his heritage. Tom had only ever taken, never given.

      Mrs Southeran looked at Eleanor’s stormy face and sighed. But then she continued in a more determined voice, ‘When you marry, or die, there will be no more Southerans of Stanyards.’

      ‘What are you trying to say, Mama?’

      ‘Not even you can claim that this house is comfortable to live in. Not in its present state. It is old, dark and damp. And we don’t have the resources to change it. I have done what I must.’

      Eleanor’s throat was dry. She said in a strained voice, ‘Mama, what have you done?’

      Mrs Southeran looked at her with pity in her eyes. ‘You will not like it, Nell, but it was for us both. I seized an opportunity which came out of the blue, and I cannot be sorry. I have sold Stanyards.’

      For a moment Eleanor sat in stunned silence. Then she whispered, ‘No, no! It’s not true!’ She threw herself down by her mother’s sofa and her breath caught on a sob as she pleaded, ‘Tell me it’s not true, Mama! You can’t have s-sold it!’

      Mrs Southeran’s face was troubled as she gazed at her daughter. But she said steadily, ‘It is true, Eleanor. In two weeks Stanyards will have a new owner.’

      ‘How could you? How could you, Mama? You must cancel the sale at once!’

      ‘I did it for us both, Nell,’ repeated Mrs Southeran. ‘And I will not change my mind.’

      Eleanor got up. Without looking at her mother she said, ‘I feel…I feel sick, Mama. Excuse me, please.’ She ran out of the room.