Free Legend of the Seventh Virgin by Victoria Holt Page A

listening. I was too content. I was faintly chagrined, it was true, that it was only the vet to whom Joe had gone. If it had been Dr. Hilliard I should have felt like some magician who had found the keys to the kingdom on earth.
    Still, it was a start for Joe; and there was more to eat in the cottage now. People were coming to see Granny. They believed in her again. Look at that granddaughter of hers worming her way into the parsonage! Look at that grandson! Mr. Pollent himself riding to the cottage to ask “Could I train him please?” What was that but witchcraft. Magic! Call it what you will. Any old woman who could do that could charm the warts off you, could give you the right powder to cure this and that, could look into the future and tell you what you belonged to do.
    So Granny was prospering, too.
    We were all prospering. There had never been such times.
    I was singing to myself as I made my way back to the parsonage.

    Mellyora and I were together a great deal now that I was a fit companion for her. I imitated her in lots of ways — walking, speaking, remaining still when I spoke, keeping my voice low, holding in my temper, being cold instead of hot. It was a fascinating study. Mrs. Yeo had ceased to grumble; Bess and Kit had ceased to marvel; Belter and Billy Toms no longer called out when I passed; they even called me Miss. And even Miss Kellow was polite to me. I had no duties in the kitchen at all; my task was to look after Mellyora’s clothes, do her hair, walk with her, read with her and to her, talk to her. The life of a lady! I assured myself. And it was now two years since I had put myself up for hire at Trelinket Fair.
    But I had much to achieve. I was always a little downcast when Mellyora received invitations and went off on visits. Sometimes Miss Kellow accompanied her, sometimes her father; I never did. None of those invitations, naturally, was extended to Mellyora’s maid, companion, whatever one liked to call her.
    She often went to call at the doctor’s house with her father; on very rare occasions she went to the Abbas; she never went to the Dower House because, as she explained to me, Kim’s father was a sea captain and he was rarely at home, and during the vacation Kim wasn’t expected to entertain; but when she went to the Abbas she often found him there, because he was a friend of Justin’s.
    After Mellyora returned from a visit to the Abbas she was always subdued and I guessed that the place meant something to her, too — either that or the people. I could see reason in this. It must be wonderful to go boldly into the Abbas as a guest. One day that would happen to me. I was sure of it.
    One Easter Sunday I learned more about Mellyora than I had ever known before. Sundays were naturally busy days at the parsonage because of all the church services. The sound of bells went on for most of the day and since we were so near they appeared to be right in the house.
    I always went to morning service which I enjoyed, chiefly I have to admit because I would be wearing one of Mellyora’s straw hats and one of her gowns; and sitting in the parsonage’s pew I felt grand and important. I loved the music, too, which always put me in a state of exultation and I liked to praise and give thanks to God who made dreams come true. The sermons I found dull for the Reverend Charles was not an inspired speaker and when, during them, I studied the congregation, my eyes invariably came to rest on the Abbas pews.
    These were at the side of the church — set apart from the rest. There were usually quite a number of servants from the house in church. The front row where the family sat was almost always empty.
    Immediately behind the Abbas pew were the lovely glass windows said to be some of the best in Cornwall — blue, red, green and mauve glinting in sunshine; they were exquisite and had been given to the church by a St. Larnston a hundred or more years before; on the two walls on either side of the pews