The Changeling

The Last Summer

I WAS TEN YEARS old when my contented life was disrupted by my mother’s marriage to Benedict Lansdon. Had I been older, more experienced of life, I should have seen the inevitability of it. But there I was, happy and snug in my little world, my mother the center of my life—as I believed I was of hers—and it did not occur to me that there could be an intruder to disturb us.

It was not as though he were a stranger to me. He had been there almost as long as I could remember—a rather flamboyant figure in the background, and that was where I wanted, and expected, him to remain.

He had been present on the Australian goldfields when and where I was born. In fact my arrival had actually taken place in his house.

“Mr. Lansdon,” my mother explained, “was different from the rest of the miners. He owned a moderately successful mine and he employed men who had given up trying on their own. We all lived in shacks. You never saw the likes unless it was the hut in the woods where that old tramp stayed last winter. Quite unsuitable for babies! And it was decided you should be born in his house. Pedrek was born there too.”

Pedrek Cartwright was my greatest friend. His parents lived in London but his grandfather owned Pencarron Mine which was near Cador, my grandparents’ home in Cornwall—so we were often together both in London and Cornwall. If his parents were not going to Cornwall and we were going to see my grandparents, he travelled with us; and my mother was very friendly with his parents in London; so we were really like one family.

Pedrek and I used to play at gold mining when we were smaller. There was a great bond between us because we had both been born in a mining township on the other side of the world—and in the house of Mr. Benedict Lansdon.

I should have guessed what was happening because when my mother spoke of Benedict Lansdon her voice would change, her eyes would sparkle and her mouth smile. But I did not attach any significance to that at the time.

Not that it would have made any difference. I should have hated it just the same, but if I had been prepared, it would not have been such a shock.

It was not until after the marriage that I realized how good life had been. I had taken so much for granted.

There had been my happy life in London not far from the park where I would go each morning with my governess, Miss Brown, to walk though the paths under the great trees-chestnut, oak and beech. We would sit with the other nannies to whom Miss Brown wanted to chat while I played with their children. We would feed the ducks on the pond and run about on the expanse of grass which was there for that purpose.

I loved the shops; there was a market some little distance from us and I was sometimes taken there on winter afternoons with Miss Brown. How exciting it was to wander among the crowds and watch the people at their stalls, particularly when it began to get dark and the naphtha flares were lighted. Once we ate jellied eels at a stall about which Miss Brown was a little uneasy because she thought it unsuitable; but I cajoled her. I loved to see the ladies in their wonderful clothes and the gentlemen in their top hats and morning coats. I loved winter evenings when we sat by the fire and listened for the muffin man’s bell when Emmy our maid would run out with a dish and buy some which my mother and I would toast by the fire.

They were happy days which I thought would go on for ever, because I was then unaware of Benedict Lansdon lurking in the background, just wailing for the appropriate time to change it all.

When the trees in the Park began to bud, and even the one in our little square garden showed signs of a few inedible pears that it might in due course produce, my mother would say: “It is time we went to Cornwall. I’ll speak to Aunt Morwenna. I wonder what their plans are this year?”

Aunt Morwenna was Pedrek’s mother, and my mother and I would go to their house which was not very far from ours and Pedrek would take me up to his room to show me his new puppy or some toy he had just acquired; we would talk of Cornwall and what we would do when we arrived there—he to his grandparents, me to mine.

There would follow the excitement of the train. Pedrek and I would endeavor to have a window to ourselves; we would shriek to each other to look at this and that as the train rushed by meadows, streams and woodlands before pulling into the stations.

And at the end of this journey there would be our grandparents waiting for us and making us feel that it was the most wonderful thing that could happen because we were coming to be with them. Then Pedrek would go on his way to Pencarron and I to Cador.

Cador, that most magnificent and exciting house, had been the home of Cadorsons for hundreds of years. There were no Cadorsons there now. The name had died out when my great-grandfather Jake Cadorson and his son Jacco were drowned in Australia and the house had passed to my grandmother who had married Rolf Hanson. I always thought it was a pity the name had died out, for Cadorsons would have been so appropriate at Cador.

Thankfully, however, the house was still in the family; and although my grandfather had come to it through marriage, he loved it, I believe, more than any other member of the family did.

I could understand his feelings for it. There it stood—grey stone, with its towers and turrets, like a medieval fortress. When I was alone in the big lofty rooms, I could imagine myself back hundreds of years. It was exciting and when I was young rather frightening; but there was always the reassuring presence of my mother and my grandparents. My grandfather would tell exciting stories of the past involving roundheads and cavaliers, of storms and shipwrecks and of adventurers who had gone off to the hitherto undiscovered places of the world.

I loved Cador. There the days seemed longer and the sun seemed to shine for days on end. And when the rain came it was just as exciting. I loved the sea. Sometimes we would be allowed to take a little trip on it, but my grandmother never liked that. She could not forget that her parents and brother had been drowned.

I used to go down to the two towns of Poldorey with my mother and grandmother. We would stroll past the cottages on the quay and watch the fishermen mending their nets or talking about the catch. Sometimes I would go down with Mr. Yeo, the butler, to buy fish. I was fascinated by the fishes squirming on the weighing machine which was spattered with silver scales. I would listen to the fishermen’s talk. “ ’Twas a good catch today, ’Arry. The Lord calmed down them old waves, ’e did and all.” At other times it was a gloomy story. “No fish today. Jesus Christ Himself wouldn’t venture out on a sea like this.” I knew most of them by name—Tom, Ted, Harry. Some of them had grand-sounding names: Reuben, Solomon, Japheth, Obediah … names taken from the Bible. Most of the families had been ardent Wesleyans since John and Charles Wesley had roamed through Cornwall bringing its people to righteousness.

Cador was about a quarter of a mile from the two towns East and West Poldorey which were separated by the River Poldor and were connected by an ancient bridge. I loved the steep streets of the town which wound up to the clifftop where one could look out across the sea. There was a wooden seat so that people might sit and rest after the climb and there I would sit with my grandfather and persuade him to tell me stories of smugglers and wreckers who lured ships to disaster along this coast. I would search on the beach for the semi-precious stones which were reputed to be found there, but the only ones I ever saw were in the window of Mr. Bander’s shop, marked with the inscription “Found on Poldorey Beach.”

I was proud to belong to Cador Folk as the family were respectfully referred to in the Poldoreys.

All this was mine—and there was the London home, too. The tall narrow house which my mother and I shared with the servants … not many of them. There were of course my governess, Miss Brown, who would have been horrified to be called a servant, then Mr. and Mrs. Emery; she was cook and housekeeper and he a man of all work who tended our tiny garden; and there was a housemaid Ann and a parlormaid Jane.

It was an intimate household. My mother was not one to stand on ceremony, and I think all the servants were devoted to her. They felt themselves to be part of the family. There was not that impenetrable barrier between up and below stairs as there was in larger establishments such as that of Mr. Benedict Lansdon and my Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis. Not that they were really my uncle and aunt; they were not even my mother’s. They were very old and the family connection went back some generations. Benedict Lansdon was Uncle Peter’s grandson, so there was even a link with him.

Uncle Peter, though very old, was an important man; he was rich and had lots of interests—some of them rather mysterious; but he was quite an awe-inspiring figure. His wife, Aunt Amaryllis, was one of those very feminine women who seem endearingly helpless and somehow hold the family together. Everyone loved her—including myself.

They entertained lavishly, although Uncle Peter’s daughter Helena and his son-in-law Martin Hume, the well-known politician, were often hostess and host at the functions held at their home. It was an exciting family to belong to.

I remember the incidents from what I thought of afterwards as the Last Summer, for it was after Christmas of that year that I had my first inkling of what was to come.

My mother and I had arrived in Cornwall. Pedrek had travelled down with us and the days seemed to have been spent between Cador and Pencarron Manor. Both Pedrek and I had to do lessons for a certain number of hours each day and these were allowed to coincide by an accommodating Miss Brown and Mr. Clenham who was Pedrek’s tutor. Pedrek was to go to school the following year so that in itself would bring change. We rode a great deal but were not allowed to go out on our own. There always had to be an adult with us which was rather restricting. So we spent a good deal of time in the paddock practicing jumping and showing off our equestrian skill to each other.

On this occasion we were with my mother and, as it seemed on many occasions, we found ourselves at St. Branok’s Pool.

I was fascinated by it. So was Pedrek. It was an uncanny spot with the willows hanging over it. The still waters of the Pool were said to be bottomless, and it had a reputation for being a place to avoid after dark. I suppose that was why it attracted me. My mother always appeared to be fascinated by it.

As usual we tied up our horses and stretched ourselves out on the grass leaning against the boulders which protruded from the ground in certain places.

“They could be the stones of an old monastery,” my mother had told us.

We had heard the story many times of the bells which were reputed to ring if a disaster threatened. They were at the bottom of the pool according to the legend.

Pedrek, who was very logical, said that if they were at the bottom, the pool could not be bottomless, to which my mother replied that flaws could often be found in most legends if one tried hard enough.

“I don’t want flaws to be found,” I told them. “I like to think it is bottomless and that the bells are there all the same.”

“A monastery was destroyed by floods because the monks turned from the path of righteousness,” explained my mother.

“There are lots of righteous people about here,” I commented. “There is old Mrs. Fenny on the quay who watches everything that goes on and thinks everyone but herself is heading for hell fire. And there’s Mrs. Polhenny who goes to church twice on Sundays and tries to make her daughter Leah as holy as she is, so that the poor girl never gets any fun.”

“People are very strange,” said my mother, “but you have to be tolerant with them. ‘Cast the beam out of your own eye …’ ”

“You sound like Mrs. Polhenny now, Mama,” I said. “She’s always quoting the Bible, but she would be sure she hasn’t the slightest speck in her eyes.”

Dreamily I would stare at the pool and lure her to tell me the story, which she had told so many times of how, when I was a little girl, I had been taken away by Jenny Stubbs who still lived in the cottage near the pool; they had thought I had wandered into the water because one of my toys was found in the brink.

“They dragged the pool,” said my mother, her eyes wide as though she were looking into the past. “I shall never forget it. I thought I had lost you.”

She was too emotional to proceed, and as I loved the story I could not hear it often enough: how Jenny Stubbs had rung toy bells hoping to drive them away because she had me hidden in her cottage, how she had cherished me and believed I was the little girl whom she had lost.

Pedrek liked the story too. He had heard it often enough before but he was never impatient when it was repeated. He knew that I liked to hear it over and over again, and he was always careful not to hurt other people’s feelings, even when he was a boy.

What I remember of that occasion is that while we were talking Jenny Stubbs herself, the main character in the story, came out of her cottage and walked to the edge of the pool.

She did not see us at first and she was singing to herself. She had a rather high, reedy voice which sounded uncanny on the stillness of the air.

My mother called: “Good afternoon, Jenny.”

She turned sharply, as though startled. “Good afternoon to ’ee, Ma’am,” she said.

She stood facing us, her back to the pool. The light breeze ruffled her fine fair hair and she looked fey—someone who is not quite as others are.

“Are you well, Jenny?” asked my mother.

“Yes, thank ’ee, Ma’am. I be well.”

She walked slowly towards us. Her eyes scanned Pedrek and myself and I expected to see some interest in her for the child she had once stolen and cherished. But there was no sign that she was any more interested in me than she was in Pedrek. My mother said later that she would have forgotten that it had ever happened. We had to remember that Jenny was strange … not as other people; she lived in a world of her own creating; she must do to have taken someone else’s child and thought it was her own.

She came and stood near us. She was gazing at my mother and it was easy to see that she drew some comfort from her presence.

“I be expecting this Lammas,” she said.

“Oh Jenny …” replied my mother, and added quickly: “You must be very happy.”

“ ’Tis a little girl, I be sure of that,” said Jenny.

My mother nodded and Jenny turned away; walking towards her cottage, she started to sing in her strange unworldly voice.

“It is very sad,” said my mother, when she was out of earshot. “She can never forget that she lost her baby all those years ago.”

“That baby would be the same age as I am now,” I said, “because she thought I was her baby once.”

My mother nodded. “And now she thinks she is going to have another. It is not the first time she has thought this.”

“What happens when she doesn’t?” I asked.

“It is hard to know what goes on in her poor clouded mind. But she does know how to look after a baby. She was wonderful with you during the few days she had you. We couldn’t have looked after you better.”

“But I wanted to come home, didn’t I? When you found me in her cottage I ran to the door, calling for you to take me home.”

My mother nodded again. “Oh, poor, poor Jenny,” she said. “I feel so very sorry for her. We must be as kind to her as we can.”

We were silent, looking at the pool. I was thinking of the days I had spent in Jenny’s cottage, and wishing I could remember more of that time; I was thinking of her ringing toy bells to drive people away so that she could have me to herself.

I felt that poor Jenny was a part of my childhood and I must always be kind and understanding towards her. I knew that was how my mother felt.

I was constantly reminding myself of little incidents from that Last Summer. I remember seeing Jenny often walking along the lanes past the pool to her cottage, singing to herself in that slightly out of tune way which gave her an otherworldliness that was, for me, intriguing.

She seemed happy and her happiness was in constant delusion. She thought she was going to have a child to replace the one which she had lost; it was what she longed for, and in her simple mind she believed that child would be born to her.

It was pathetic, and yet in a way she was happy because she believed in her fantasy.

Another incident I remembered from that summer occurred when I was in the company of my grandmother. We were the greatest of friends; she seemed too young to be a grandmother; she was more like a lively young aunt or an elder sister.

She told me a great deal about my mother. “You must look after her,” she said. “She has had a sad time, you know. She was married to a wonderful man—your father—and he died before you were born and she was all alone.”

She had explained several times that my father had wanted to go to Australia to make a fortune so that we could all come back to England and live in comfort. He had gone to find gold and Pedrek’s parents had been with him and my mother. They had lived in the township which was a very brave thing to do because they were all unused to hardship. Pedrek’s father and mine had been partners. She explained to me how the mines could be quite unsafe; they had to be propped up with wood so that they would not cave in, which was what theirs did. Pedrek’s father had been down in the mine when it happened, and my father went down and brought him up. He had passed him to the watchers on the brink and before they could help my father out, there was a great fall of earth, and he had been taken down with it.

“He gave his life for his friend,” she finished.

“I know,” I replied. “Pedrek’s mother told me. She said Pedrek and I must always remember this and be friends for ever.”

She nodded. “You will,” she said. “I know you will be. And you must love your mother dearly, for when he died … she gave all that love she had had for him to you.”

I understood. It was how I wanted it to be.

On this particular day we walked down to West Poldorey to the ancient church which stood close to the sea. It was small, dating back to Norman times. West Poldorey was very proud of it and East Poldorey a little envious because it wasn’t on their side, for people from far off came to look at it and it was said it should never be allowed to crumble away. There were many bazaars and garden fetes to bolster up its roof which needed constant repair and I heard ominous talk of woodworm and death watch beetle.

I liked to creep in when no one was there and think of all those people who had sat in that church, just as I was doing. My grandfather had said that people had gone in there to pray when the Armada was off our coast and again when Napoleon was threatening to invade us. In the old church—as in Cador—one could easily slip back into the past.

The church door was open and we heard voices inside.

“I know,” said my grandmother. “They are decorating the church with flowers for John Polgarth’s wedding.” John Polgarth was the man who owned the grocer’s shop in East Poldorey, quite a worthy member of the community, and he was to marry Molly Agar, daughter of the butcher.

The wedding was to be the next day.

As we stepped through the door I heard the commanding voice of Mrs. Polhenny. She was a very important person in the neighborhood because she followed the profession of midwife and most of the younger generation had been brought into the world by her. I always thought she believed that gave her the right to pass judgment on their actions and superintend their spiritual welfare, for this she did in no uncertain way.

She was naturally not popular with her protégés. That was of no importance to her. She would have said she was not there to make people like her but to put them on the road to salvation.

Mrs. Polhenny was a good woman if by good it was meant that she went to church twice every Sunday and often in the week, that she was involved in most good works for the salvation of the church, and that she could apply the Scriptures to almost every occasion; and as she could not help being deeply aware of her own goodness she was quick to detect the sin in others.

Naturally her life was one long disapproval of almost everyone around her. Even the vicar came in for criticism. He took the Bible teaching too literally, she said, and was inclined to seek the company of the publicans and sinners rather than those whose sins had been washed away by the blood of the Lamb because of their devotion to duty and their love of virtue.

I did not like Mrs. Polhenny. I found her a most uncomfortable person. Not that I had a great deal to do with her, but I was sorry for Leah, her daughter, who was about sixteen years old at this time. Mrs. Polhenny was a widow but I had never heard of a Mr. Polhenny; there must have been one, otherwise there could not have been a Leah.

“She must have killed him off pretty quick,” was the comment of Mrs. Garnett, the cook at Cador. “Poor fellow, I reckon he had a rare old time of it.”

Leah was very pretty but she always seemed cowed as though she were looking over her shoulder, expecting the devil to be lurking somewhere ready to spring out and tempt her.

Leah was a seamstress. She did beautiful embroidery which she and her mother took into Plymouth once a month and sold to a shop there. Her work was exquisite and the poor girl was kept at it.

On this day she was in church with her mother, helping with the flowers, and Mrs. Polhenny was giving orders to her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Polhenny,” said my grandmother. “What beautiful roses!”

Mrs. Polhenny looked pleased. “It’ll be a good show for the wedding, Mrs. Hanson.”

“Oh yes indeed … John Polgarth and Molly Agar.”

“Everyone in the towns will be there to see them wed,” went on Mrs. Polhenny, and added significantly: “And it’s about time, too.”

“I’m sure they will be very suited. Nice girl, Molly.”

“H’m,” said Mrs. Polhenny. “A bit on the flighty side.”

“Oh, she’s just high spirited.”

“Agar did well to get her married. She’s not the sort to be left unwed.” Mrs. Polhenny pursed her lips, hinting at secret knowledge.

“Well, it’s all for the best then,” replied my grandmother.

There was a movement behind us. Mrs. Polhenny was studying the flowers in the container. I glanced around. The newcomer was a young girl. I did not know her. She slipped into one of the pews and knelt down.

Mrs. Polhenny said: “Bring me that spray, Leah. That would go very well here …” She stopped short. She was staring at the girl kneeling in the pew.

“Can I believe my eyes?” she said loudly and with indignation.

We were all silent, wondering what she meant. She had left the flowers and walked briskly down the aisle to the girl.

“Get out!” she cried. “You slut! How dare you come into this holy place? It’s not for the likes of you.”

The girl had risen. I thought she was going to burst into tears.

“I only wanted …” she began.

“Out!” cried Mrs. Polhenny. “Out, I say!”

My grandmother cut in. “Wait a moment. What does this mean? Tell me what’s going on.”

The girl shot past us and ran out of the church.

“You may well ask,” said Mrs. Polhenny. “It’s one of the sluts from Bays Cottages.” Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. “And I don’t mind telling you she’s six months gone.”

“Her husband.

Mrs. Polhenny laughed mirthlessly. “Husband? Her sort don’t wait for husbands. She’s not the first in that lot, I can tell you. They’re bad, through and through. It’s a marvel to me that the Lord don’t smite them on the spot.”

“Perhaps He feels more kindly towards sinners than some mortals do.”

“They’ll come to judgment, never fear.” Mrs. Polhenny’s eyes glittered as though she were already seeing the girl writhing in the flames of hell.

“Well, she was here in church,” said my grandmother. “She must have been repenting, and you know there is great joy over sinners who repent.”

“If I were the Lord,” said Mrs. Polhenny, “I’d do something about them Bay Cottages, that I would.”

“Perhaps some have to be thankful that you are not the Lord,” retorted my grandmother somewhat tartly. “Tell me about the girl. Who is she?”

“Daisy Martin. A bad lot, that family. The girl’s grandmother called me in. She’s repented her ways … getting old and frightened of what’s to come, I shouldn’t wonder. Wanted me to take a look at the girl. I said, ‘She’s six months gone and what about the man?’ She said it was one of them farm laborers who came on to help with the thatching. The girl’s only sixteen. Disgraceful, I call it.”

“But you’ll deliver the child, of course.”

“I have to do that, don’t I? ’Tis my work, and if a baby’s been planted, however sinfully, it’s my duty to bring it into the world. God sent me here to do this work and nothing would stop me.”

“I’m glad of that,” replied my grandmother. “We must not visit the sins of the parents upon the children, you know.”

“Well, they’re God’s children, however they’ve been come by. As for that creature … I hope they cast her out … once the child’s born. It does the neighborhood no good to have her sort about.”

“She’s only sixteen, you say.”

“Old enough to know better.”

“She’s not the first, by any means.”

“So much for the sinful ways into which we have fallen.”

“There is nothing very new about these things, you know,” said my grandmother.

“The Lord will take His vengeance,” Mrs. Polhenny assured us, looking up to the rafters as though to Heaven—giving the Lord a little prod, I thought, to remind him that He was being lax in performing His duty.

I knew my grandmother was torn between the pity she felt for the wayward young Daisy and the secret pleasure she derived from baiting Mrs. Polhenny who went on: “The goings on at Poldorey … East and West … well, it would give you a bit of a shock, I reckon, if you knew all.”

“Then I suppose I should be thankful to remain in ignorance.”

“The Lord will take His vengeance one day … mark my words.”

“I can hardly see East and West Poldorey as Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“It’s coming, you’ll see.”

“I hope not. But what I do see is that we are holding up your work. We’ll say goodbye, Mrs. Polhenny.”

We stood outside the church and my grandmother breathed deeply, as though she needed fresh air after the atmosphere iii the church.

Then she turned to me and laughed. “What a self-righteous woman. I’d rather have a sinner any day. Oh well … she’s an excellent midwife. There isn’t a better in the whole width and breadth of Cornwall. My dear, we must look after that poor girl. I’ll go along to the cottages tomorrow and see what I can find out.”

She seemed suddenly to remember my age, and possibly it occurred to her that I was being introduced to the facts of life before I was ready to absorb them.

She went on: “We’ll go over to Pencarron this afternoon. Isn’t it wonderful that you have Pedrek here with you?”

I thought a lot about Mrs. Polhenny and always scrutinized her cottage closely when I passed by. It was just outside East Poldorey and often I would see clothes drying on the bushes. There were lace curtains at the windows, spotlessly clean, and the stone steps leading to the front door were regularly scrubbed. She obviously believed that cleanliness was next to godliness; and saw herself as an upholder of both virtues.

Once or twice I glimpsed Leah at a window. She would be there with her embroidery frame, stitching away. Sometimes she looked up from her work and saw me. I would smile, wave my hand, and she would acknowledge my greeting.

I should have liked to talk to her. I wanted to know what it was like living with a mother such as Mrs. Polhenny. But she always gave me the impression, if ever I hesitated, that she must get on quickly with her work.

Poor Leah! I thought. It must be hard to be the daughter of a saintly woman who, as she felt it her duty to uphold the morals of the countryside, must be much more strict in her own home.

I thanked God for my mother, my grandparents and the Pencarrons. They might not be so concerned with the laws of God but they were much more comfortable to live with.

So that summer passed as others had. My grandmother visited Bays Cottages and took clothes and food for the young girl; Mrs. Polhenny delivered a healthy boy in due course and my grandmother affirmed that, however irritating she was in other ways, she knew her job and mothers were safe in her hands.

I seemed to see Jenny Stubbs more frequently that year. Perhaps it was because I noticed her more. I would see her in the lanes. She worked for one of the farmers’ wives and I heard she was a good worker. They all humored her, it was said, and Mrs. Bullet, the farmer’s wife, made sure none of the other workers teased her or disillusioned her as to her state. “It does no harm to none,” said Mrs. Bullet, “so let the poor soul have her fancies.”

So Jenny, singing in her reedy off-key tone and Mrs. Polhenny preaching righteousness wherever she went … that was what I remembered most from that Last Summer.

And now, looking back, that seems somehow significant.

It is all so clear to me; waving goodbye to the grandparents, which was rather sad in a way. I tried to hide from them the excitement I felt at the thought of seeing London again.

“I wish,” I said to Pedrek, “that we could all live close together.”

He had the same problem. His grandmother was almost in tears at his departure. Like myself, he wanted to show how sad he was and yet he could not hide his eagerness to be reunited with his parents. The similarity of our positions had always drawn Pedrek and me closer together.

Then we were speeding back to London.

Pedrek’s parents were at the station to meet us. It was the usual ritual. If I had been travelling with his parents, my mother would have been there. There is something very comforting about normality which I did not appreciate until it ceased to be there.

We drove back to our house first where we would have tea before the Cartwrights went off to their place only a few streets away, taking Pedrek with them.

Innumerable questions were asked and Pedrek and I talked happily about what we had done in Cornwall.

We were all sitting at the table—Miss Brown and Pedrek’s tutor with us—when a visitor arrived.

“Mr. Benedict Lansdon!” announced Jane with more dignity than was customary with her. And there he was—very tall and with what I can only describe as a commanding presence.

“Benedict,” said my mother, rising.

She went to him and he took both her hands and they stood there smiling at each other.

Then she turned to us. “Isn’t this a nice surprise?”

“I discovered what train you were catching,” explained Benedict Lansdon.

“Come and sit down and have a cup of tea,” said my mother warmly.

He smiled at us all and pleasantries were exchanged.

I felt deflated. We had departed from the normal. We should have gone on chattering about Cornwall, encouraged by our parents, and then Pedrek should have departed with his mother and father after we had made arrangements when next to meet. That was how it usually went.

“How are things in the mining world?” asked Benedict, smiling at Pedrek’s father.

“Oh … ups and downs,” said Justin Cartwright. “I am sure you know as much about the mining world as I do … only I suppose tin isn’t gold.”

“There must be a difference,” said Benedict Lansdon. “But my close connection with all that ended long ago.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” replied Justin Cartwright.

“I’m going into politics again,” said Benedict Lansdon, looking at my mother.

Her eyes widened with pleasure. “Oh really, Benedict, that’s wonderful. I always said …”

He looked at her, nodding and understanding passed between them. I felt shut out. It was as though I had just discovered that she had a life which did not include me.

“I know you did,” he went on. “Well, that is what is happening.”

“Do tell us the news, Benedict,” begged Morwenna, Pedrek’s mother.

“It’s no secret,” he replied. “I am up for selection as candidate for Manorleigh.”

“Your old constituency,” cried Justin.

Benedict nodded. He was looking straight at my mother. I, who knew her so well, felt a twinge of alarm.

“All very fortuitous,” said Benedict. “Tom Dollis died suddenly. Poor chap, he was quite young. A heart attack. He had only been in the House a short while. It will mean a by-election soon.”

“Isn’t it a Conservative stronghold?” asked Justin.

Benedict nodded. “Has been for years … but it was almost broken … once.”

Again that glance at my mother. “If I’m selected,” he went on, “we shall have to make sure the seat doesn’t change hands again.”

We? It was as though he included her.

She lifted her teacup. “Having nothing stronger at hand,” she said, “I’ll drink to your success in tea.”

“What does the beverage matter?” he said. “It’s the wish that counts.”

“Well, it’s most exciting, I must say.”

Again that smile between them. “I think so,” he said. “I knew you would.”

Morwenna said: “I do know you are an ardent supporter of Mr. Gladstone.”

“My dear Morwenna, he’s the greatest politician of the century.”

“What of Peel … Palmerston …?” began Justin Cartwright.

Benedict dismissed them with a flick of the hand.

“And they do say that Mr. Disraeli is quite brilliant,” added Morwenna.

“That upstart! He owes his rise to his oily flattery of the Queen.”

“Oh come,” said Justin. “Surely there is more to it than that? The man’s a genius.”

“With a flair for self-advertisement.”

“He did become Prime Minister.”

“Oh, for a month or so …”

My mother burst out laughing. “I can see that we are going to be deeply involved in the politics of the day. When is the by-election, Benedict?”

“In December.”

“They’ll have to make a decision quickly.”

“It’s not much time to prepare. I should manage though.”

Neither Pedrek nor I had spoken during this discourse and I was wondering whether he was thinking the same as I was which was, that they had completely forgotten that we were there. Usually after long separations, they wanted to hear all that had been going on, how our riding had improved, how high we could jump, how the grandparents were, what the weather had been like and such things.

Then they were talking about Mr. Gladstone’s plans for reform in Ireland. Benedict Lansdon, of course, knew all about that. He took control and the others were his audience. We heard how Mr. Gladstone was concerned about the distressed state of the Irish and the growing discontent in that country and he was convinced that the remedy lay with the government.

And that was our homecoming—spoilt, I commented to Pedrek, by Benedict Lansdon.

Our lives from then on were dominated by the man. He was a constant caller. When I walked in the Park with my mother he often joined us. They would talk together and seem to forget that I was there, though sometimes he addressed a remark to me. He asked me how I was getting on with my riding and said we must all go riding together.

He had been selected—as my mother had known he would be—and was thinking of buying a house in Manorleigh; he wanted my mother to go down there and give her opinion.

I was longing for him to go. He had rented a furnished house there while he looked round. But he was frequently in London.

November was almost with us. They were sweeping up the leaves in the parks and there was a lovely smell of burning in the air. It was misty and a blue haze hung over the trees which made them look mysterious. Pedrek and I had always loved this time of year; we would shuffle through the leaves and conjure up all sorts of fantastic adventures in which we triumphed and astonished everyone with our bravery, ingenuity and skill.

But the dreams would not come that year. A faint uneasiness was creeping into my mind.

And then … I learned the worst.

I had gone to bed and was sitting up reading as I often did and which was allowed by Miss Brown before she came to put out the light.

My mother entered the room. Her eyes were brilliant. I had heard talk about people being radiant and that was how she was. She glowed with an inner light. I had never seen such unadulterated happiness.

She lay down on the bed and put her arms round me.

“Rebecca,” she said, “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

I turned to her and buried my face against her shoulder.

She stroked my hair. “There has always been just us … hasn’t there? You and I together. Oh, there was the family, of course, and we loved them all dearly … but for us … you and me … there was always something very close and dear … and it is always going to be like that for as long as we both shall live.”

I nodded. I was beginning to be rather frightened for some instinct told me what she was going to say.

Then it came: “I’m going to be married again, Rebecca.”

“No … no,” I murmured.

She held me tightly. “You will grow to love him, as I do. He is a wonderful man. I knew him when I was young … not much older than you are now. There has always been a very special friendship between us.”

“You married my father,” I reminded her.

“Yes … yes … but I have been a widow for a long time … a very long time.”

“It’s ten years,” I said. “He died just before I was born.”

She nodded. “You don’t ask …” she began.

I did not have to. I knew. In any case, before I could speak, she said: “It’s Mr. Benedict Lansdon.”

Even though I had known it must be he, a shock ran through me.

She said: “You will be very fond of him, Rebecca. He is a most unusual man.”

I did not speak. The answer to the first sentence was: Never. And the second: Yes, I know he is unusual. But I did not like unusual people. I liked them to be ordinary, understanding nice people.

“Everything will be just as it was,” she went on.

“It can’t be,” I said.

“Well, there will be a little change … for the better, though. Oh, Rebecca, I’m so happy. I have loved him for a long time. He’s different from anyone I have ever known. When we were children we shared adventures and then he went away … and I met your father.”

“My father was a great man … a hero …”

“Yes, I know. We were happy together, but he is dead … and he would not want me to go on mourning him for ever. Rebecca, you are going to be happy. Everyone should have a father.”

“I have a father.”

“I mean one who is here with you … to help you … to advise you and love you.”

“But I am not his daughter.”

“You will be his stepdaughter. Rebecca, don’t spoil this. I am so happy tonight. I never thought to be so happy in my life. You’ll get used to the idea. What are you reading?”

“Robinson Crusoe.”

“That’s exciting, isn’t it? I noticed Pedrek was reading it the other day.”

I nodded.

She kissed me. “I just wanted you to be the first to know. Goodnight, my darling.”

She was faintly uneasy because I had cast a cloud over her happiness—but only a little one. I knew that she was thinking I was only a child and I was perhaps a little jealous and afraid of Benedict Lansdon coming between us.

It was natural, she was telling herself.

Perhaps I should have pretended to be pleased, but I could not be as deceitful as that.

The family were delighted. There was a dinner party at Uncle Peter’s to celebrate the engagement. The wedding was to be soon.

My grandparents would come up to London for the ceremony. They had written sending congratulations and expressing their pleasure in the forthcoming marriage. Uncle Peter was clearly delighted. He was fond of my mother and very proud of Benedict who had become so rich without any help from him. I think he cared more for him than his son Peterkin who had devoted his life to good works at the Mission, and Helena who had been such a perfect wife to Martin Hume.

It was rather different in our house where I was conscious of an atmosphere of brooding apprehension.

The servants did not speak to me about their fears but I used to listen shamelessly to their conversations because it was imperative that I should know what was in their minds. It was possible in a smallish house like ours to listen to talk and I made the most of it.

I heard Mr. and Mrs. Emery once. She was putting things in the linen cupboard and he was handing them to her. It was just outside my room and if the door were a little open—which I had contrived that it should be—it was possible for me to hear quite a bit.

She was saying: “It don’t do to worry. We’ll know in good time.”

“There is this new house they’re getting. But if I know Mrs. Mandeville, she’s not the sort to forget them as has been good servants to her.”

“Oh, it’ll be all right if it’s left to her … but …”

“Why shouldn’t it be? She’ll be the mistress, won’t she?”

“Well, yes … I reckon he’ll leave all that sort of thing to her.”

“I doubt he’ll buy that house unless he gets in.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s been close before, hasn’t he? That means if he loses first time round he could win next. There’ll be a general election before long … bound to be. Yes, I reckon he’ll want that house now he’s been selected.”

“Do you think he’ll get into Parliament?”

“He seems the sort to get what he wants.”

“Don’t forget last time … a regular scandal that was.”

I crept near to the door. I must not miss this. What scandal? I asked myself. Did my mother know of it?

“Well, it was all cleared up, wasn’t it?”

“Sort of. He didn’t kill her. That’s what they thought at first.”

“But it turned out she took the stuff herself instead.”

“All nice and convenient, wasn’t it?”

“Convenient! Why, it lost him the seat, they said. He was all set to take it.”

“Who knows? It was a Tory stronghold and he’s a Liberal.”

“But, but the Tories was getting really rattled. It looked like he was going to take it … make a record. The first time the Tories had been ousted for a hundred years or something.”

“But it didn’t happen.”

“No, his poor unwanted wife died in mysterious circumstances.”

“But I told you it was all right. He didn’t kill her.”

“I reckon it all worked out for the best. It kept the seat for the Tories.”

“Oh, you and your Tories. I’m a bit of a Liberal myself.”

“What do you know about it?”

“About as much as you do. There! That’ll be the lot. Come on. I’ve got the dinner to see to.”

I crept away from the door.

I felt excited, and the same time full of misgiving.

He had been married before. His wife had died … mysteriously. His first wife! And my mother was proposing to become his second.

I wondered what I could do. Warn her? But she must know about that long-ago scandal. She ignored it. She was bemused. She was bewitched by him.

I wished people would talk to me. I knew it was no use asking the Emerys or either of the maids. They would not tell me.

There was only one thing I could do and that was call on Pedrek’s help. Together we might discover what it was all about.

He was eager to help and asked their butler with whom he was on very friendly terms; he was told that some time ago Benedict Lansdon had stood for election in Manorleigh and just before it took place his wife had died; she had been a quiet, rather nervous woman and he had been very friendly with Mrs. Grace Hume. It had been hinted that Benedict murdered his wife to get her out of the way. It was all rumor and nothing was proved at the time of the election, and if this had not all come out, Benedict Lansdon would almost certainly have won the seat. But he was defeated at the polls because of the scandal and lost his chance of becoming a Member of Parliament. A note was discovered later … which had been written by the wife before she died. In it she said she was taking her life because she was suffering from some uncurable disease and was beginning to be in great pain.

So he was exonerated, but it was too late for him to win the election and in any case he had gone out of politics.

So there was some secret in his past. And this was the man who was to marry my mother and take her away from me!

From then on it grew worse. I saw less of my mother. They were making plans for the wedding. Uncle Peter wanted a grand one.

“There is nothing people like better than romance,” he said. “And if you are going to stand for Parliament, it is a good idea to get into the public eye … in the right way, of course.”

“That is just like Uncle Peter,” my mother said, laughing. She was always laughing at that time. “Personally I don’t care what sort of wedding it is.”

Aunt Amaryllis sided with Uncle Peter. She always did.

Benedict Lansdon was in the process of buying the house at Manorleigh. My mother had taken me down to see it. “It will be our home for much of the time, I imagine,” she said. “We shall have to nurse the constituency.”

“What of our house?” I asked.

“Well, I think I shall sell it. We shall have your … stepfather’s house in London.”

I felt my face grow red. My stepfather! I thought. What am I going to call him? I can’t call him Mr. Lansdon. Uncle Benedict? He is not my uncle. But there were a lot of people in our family called uncle although they had no right to the title. Uncle was just a nebulous form of address. It made a mockery of the title, I told Pedrek, who agreed with me. It seemed to be a major problem and I marvelled that so small a thing should matter so much. But what was I going to call him? Father? Never! It would have to be Uncle, I supposed. It was both confusing and embarrassing.

My mother went on trying to pretend she had not noticed my embarrassment and understanding it perfectly.

“We shall have that house in London and goodness knows, that is spacious enough—and the place at Manorleigh. Oh, it will be fun, Becca.” She reverted to my old childhood name when she wished to be especially tender. “You will love it. The Manorleigh house is just outside the little town and it will be in the country. You’ll love that. There will be plenty of scope for riding. You’ll have a lovely schoolroom. Miss Brown … and all of us … will be expecting great things from you.”

“What about Mr. and Mrs. Emery …?”

“Oh, I have spoken … we have spoken … about that. I am going to ask them if they would like to come with us to Manorleigh.”

That made me feel a good deal better. There would be those familiar faces near me. Moreover I knew they had been worried about their jobs.

I cried: “Oh, they will be so pleased. I heard them talking …”

“Oh? What did they say?”

“They didn’t know what would happen to them, but they reckoned you would see they were all right.”

“Of course. I’ll tell them at once. Then they can decide whether they want to come. What else did they say?”

I was silent. I could hear the clock ticking and the seconds passing. I was on the point of telling her what they had said about his wife. I could warn her perhaps. The moment passed. She did not seem to notice the hiatus.

“Oh, nothing … I can’t remember …” I said.

It was the first lie I remembered telling her.

He had indeed come between us.

My grandparents arrived in London.

I was disappointed that they seemed to be overcome by their admiration for Benedict Lansdon and delighted by the prospect of the marriage.

There was a great deal of excited talk about the constituency and the possibility of a general election.

“Not much chance yet,” said my grandfather. “Gladstone is well in … unless he comes a cropper over Ireland again.”

“It will come in time,” said my mother. “And we don’t want it too soon. Benedict has to make his presence felt before that.”

“He will do that,” added my grandmother with conviction.

She soon noticed that all was not well with me.

We went for a walk in the Park together and I quickly realized that she had arranged it so that we could talk in peace.

It was one of those late autumnal days—the mist only faintly disturbed by the softest of winds which blew from the southwest—dampish, leaving the skin glowing. There was a smell of autumn in the air and a few bronze leaves remaining on the trees.

As we walked by the Serpentine, she said to me: “I believe you are feeling a little … left out. Are you, my dear?”

I was silent for a moment. She put her arm through mine.

“You mustn’t think that. Everything is the same between you and your mother.”

“How can it be?” I demanded. “He will be there.”

“You will enjoy his company. He will be like your father.”

“I can only have one father.”

“My dearest child, your father died before you were born. You never knew him.”

“I know that he died saving Pedrek’s father’s life—and I don’t want any other father.”

She pressed my arm. “It has been a surprise to you. People often feel like that. You think there will be a change. Yes, there will be. But had you thought it might be a change for the better?”

“I liked it as it was.”

“Your mother is very happy,” she said.

“Yes,” I agreed bitterly. “Because of him.”

“You and she have been together so much. The fact that your father died made that inevitable. I know there is a very special relationship between you—and there always will be. But she and Benedict … they have been such good friends … always.”

“Then why did she marry my father? He must have been a closer friend to her.”

“Benedict went to Australia. He was out of her life. They both married different people … at first.”

“Yes, and my father died saving another man’s life. His wife … she died too.”

“Why do you say it like that, Rebecca?”

“Like what?”

“As though there was something odd about it.”

“There was something odd about it.”

“Who said so?”

I closed my lips firmly. I was not going to betray the servants.

“Tell me what you heard,” she urged.

I remained silent.

“Please, Rebecca, tell me,” she begged.

“She died and they thought he had killed her because he didn’t want to be married to her any more … and he did not win the election because of it. And afterwards they found that she had killed herself.

“It’s true,” said my grandmother. “People will always blacken the case against others, particularly if they are in a prominent position. It’s a form of envy.”

“But she did die.”

“Yes.”

“I wish my mother was not going to marry him.”

“Rebecca, you must not judge him before you know him.”

“I do know him.”

“No, you don’t. We don’t even fully know those who are closest to us. He loves your mother. I am sure of that, and she loves him. She has been so long alone. Don’t spoil it.”

“I? Spoil it?”

“Yes. You can. If she thinks you’re not happy, she won’t be.”

“I don’t think she is aware of anyone or anything … except him.”

“Just at the moment she can think of little but her new life … her state of happiness. Don’t show hostility to him. Let her enjoy this. You will … in time. But you are building up prejudices against him … and that won’t do. You’ll find everything is more or less as it was. You’ll live in a different house, true. But what are houses? Just places to live in. And you will come down to Cornwall and be with your grandfather and me. Pedrek will be there …”

“Pedrek’s going away to school.”

“Well, there’ll be holidays. You don’t think he won’t be coming to see his grandparents just because he’s going to school, do you?”

“He’s very rich, this er …”

“Benedict. Yes, he is now. You are not going to hold that against him, are you? This is not an uncommon situation, you know. Lots of young people get uneasy when their parents remarry. You mustn’t make up your mind that he is some sort of villain. Stepparents often acquire an unhealthy reputation since Cinderella. But you are too sensible to be influenced by such things.”

I began to feel a slight relief. I always felt cosy with my grandparents. I kept saying to myself: “And they’ll be there. All I have to do is go to them.”

She pressed my arm. “Come on,” she said. “Tell me what’s worrying you.”

“I … I don’t know what to call him.”

She stopped short and looked at me; and then she started to laugh. To my surprise I found myself joining in.

She composed her features and looked very serious.

“Oh, what a weighty matter!” she said. “What are you going to call him? Step-papa? That won’t do. Stepfather? Step-pa … or simply Father.”

“I can’t call him that,” I said firmly. “I have a father and he is dead.”

She must have noticed the stubborn line of my mouth.

“Well, Uncle Benedict.”

“He’s not my uncle.”

“There is a family connection somewhere … a long way back … so you could do that with a fair conscience. Uncle Benedict. Uncle Lansdon. So that was what was worrying you!”

She knew it was more than that; but we had become lighthearted.

I had known that a talk with my grandmother would do me a lot of good.

I continued to feel better. I assured myself that, whatever happened, I had my grandparents. Moreover the atmosphere in the house had lightened considerably, for the servants were no longer anxious about their future. They were going to Manorleigh—all of them; and as the new house would be much bigger than our present one, there would probably be more servants. This would mean a rise in the status of the Emerys. Mrs. Emery would become a sort of housekeeper and he a full-time butler. Their anxieties had turned to pleasure and I could not spoil the happiness of those about me.

Then I heard more conversation. I must have been adept at keeping my ears open, partly because I was frustrated. On account of my youth, facts were often kept from me. There was nothing new about that, but in the past it had seemed less important.

This time it was Jane and Mrs. Emery and they were talking about the forthcoming wedding which was not surprising because it was everybody’s favorite topic.

I was coming up the thickly carpeted stairs so my footsteps would not be heard, and the door to Mrs. Emery’s sitting room was half open. She and Jane were turning out a cupboard, preparing for a move to Manorleigh, which we were all doing in some form or other at this time.

It was wrong to eavesdrop normally, I knew; but there must be occasions when it would be foolish not to do so.

I must find out all I could about this man my mother was going to marry. It was of the utmost importance to me … as well as to her. Thus I made excuses for myself and shamelessly, I paused and listened, awaiting revelations.

“I’m not surprised,” Jane was saying. “I mean, the way she is … Goodness me, you can see she’s in love with him. She’s like a young girl. Well, you’ve got to admit, Mrs. Emery, there’s something about him.”

“He’s got something about him all right,” agreed Mrs. Emery.

“What I mean is,” went on Jane, “he’s a real man.”

“You and your real men.”

“I reckon he’ll be Prime Minister one day.”

“Here. Hold on. He’s not in Parliament yet. We’ve got to wait and see. People remember things … and even if they don’t there’s them to remind them.”

“You mean that first wife of his. Oh, that’s all settled now. She did it herself.”

“Yes, but he married her for her money. She wasn’t what you’d call ‘all there’… if you know what I mean. A bit simple like. What would a man like him be doing marrying a girl like that? Well, you see, there was this here goldmine.”

“Goldmine?” whispered Jane.

“Well, that’s where his money come from, didn’t it? See, there was gold on her father’s land and Mr. Clever found out. So what did he do? There wasn’t a son and the daughter got it all. So … he married her, then got his hands on the gold … and it was this goldmine that made him the rich man he is today.”

“Perhaps he fell in love with her.”

“Fell in love with the gold, more like.”

“Well, it’s not Mrs. M’s money he’s after, ’cos he’s got a lot more himself.”

“Oh, I reckon that’s different, but it goes to show you …”

“Show you what?”

“The sort he is. He’ll get what he wants. He’ll be in that House of Commons before you can say Jack Robinson … and when he gets there, there’ll be no holding him.”

“You’re pleased about all this, Mrs. Emery, I do believe.”

“I’ve always wanted to be in one of them houses where things go on … above stairs. Mr. Emery feels the same. I’ll tell you something. Things is going to be a bit lively in this place, mark my words. Here! What are we doing gossiping? That’s enough, Miss. We’ll never get these things sorted out at this rate.”

Silence. I made my way quietly up the stairs.

I did not like it. He had married a woman because of the gold found on her father’s land; and then … she died mysteriously.

He might possess all the assets to make him Jane’s Real Man. But I did not like it.

There was great activity. The by-election was soon to take place. My mother went to Manorleigh and Grace Hume left the Mission to give a hand. She was very efficient and had helped Benedict before.

I heard a certain amount of speculation about that, for Grace had been a close friend of Benedict’s first wife. Nothing was said about this in the press however. I only heard it from scraps of whispering from the servants.

My mother, as the prospective member’s fiancée, was a great success.

Uncle Peter said: “There is nothing like the romantic touch for getting people’s votes.”

I felt alone—apart; it seemed as though my mother had already gone. They were all so busy. No one could talk of anything but elections; and Miss Brown had started a series of lessons on the Prime Ministers of England. I was heartily tired of Sir Robert Peel and his Peelers and Lord Palmerston and his gun-boat policies.

“If you are going to be a member of a political family, you must know something of the country’s leaders,” said Miss Brown archly.

Everyone was certain that Benedict Lansdon was going to win the seat although it had been in the hands of the Tories for over a hundred years. He was working indefatigably in Manorleigh, they said, speaking every night. My mother was often with him.

“She’s a natural,” commented Uncle Peter, who had travelled to Manorleigh to attend some of the meetings. “She’s the politician’s ideal wife … another Helena. Wives are a very important part of a member’s ménage.”

Nothing else seemed to exist for them. I was surprised by my attitude. I was wishing he would not win and reproaching myself for it. It would be such a great disappointment to all the people I loved best—most of all my mother. A little failure would be good for him, I told myself virtuously; but I knew in my heart that I hated him because he had spoilt my contented and peaceful existence when he came to play such a prominent part in my mother’s life.

To the great delight of all the family, he won. I had always known that he would. He had taken the first step. He was now the Member of Parliament for Manorleigh. There was a great deal of publicity about it, because he had snatched the seat from the Tories who had held it for over a hundred years.

I was able to read about him in the papers. Writers tried to assess the reasons for his victory. He was knowledgeable; he had a ready wit; he was good-tempered with hecklers. They admitted he had fought a good campaign and he appeared to have the qualities necessary to make a good Member of Parliament. He was connected with Martin Hume who held cabinet rank in the Tory administration—albeit on the other side of the fence. It was a triumph for the Liberals. Mr. Gladstone expressed his satisfaction.

Benedict had been fortunate in having a newcomer to the neighborhood in his opponent, whereas he had fought the seat some time earlier; he had been set for victory then but the scandal attaching to his wife’s death happening at such a critical moment had let in his opponent.

Well, here he was and Manorleigh could be congratulated on electing its new member, one who promised to show energy and enthusiasm if his campaign was anything to go by.

Uncle Peter was delighted. He was tremendously proud of his grandson. There was great rejoicing throughout the family and my mother was particularly excited.

“Now,” she said, “we have to settle into that house in Manorleigh. Oh, Becca, won’t that be fun?”

Would it? I wondered.

Christmas had passed and spring was approaching. The wedding day grew near.

I had tried to shake off my foreboding. I had on one or two occasions tried to talk to my mother about Benedict. She was eager enough to talk but did not tell me what I wanted to hear.

Often in the past she had told me about those days she had spent with my father and Pedrek’s parents in the mining township. I had heard so much that I could see it clearly; the mine shaft, the shop where everything was sold, the shacks in which they lived, the celebrations when someone found gold. I could see the eager faces in the light of the fires on which they cooked their steaks; I could almost feel the hungry greed for gold.

I always saw my father as different from the others—the debonair adventurer who had come half way round the world to make his fortune. He was always merry, lighthearted, my mother told me; he always believed that luck would come to him. I could picture him so clearly I glowed with pride; I was desperately sad because I had never had the privilege of knowing him; and there followed his heroic end which fitted into the picture of my ideal. Why hadn’t he lived? Then there would have been no possibility of my mother’s marrying Benedict Lansdon.

Desperately I hoped that something would happen to prevent this marriage, but the days passed and the wedding day was fast approaching.

Benedict Lansdon had been fortunate in finding an old manor house on the market. It needed a good deal of restoration but my mother had said she would love to help in doing that. It had been built sometime in the early 1400s and restored in the days of Henry VIII—at least the two lower stories had; the upper one was pure medieval.

I should have been greatly interested in it if it had not been his house, for it was quite impressive if one did not compare it with Cador. It was shut in by red brick walls and there was an overgrown garden. I did like the garden. It was a place to lose oneself in. My mother was very excited. She was in a mood to find everything connected with her life wonderful. I wanted to remain aloof, but I could not. I was completely fascinated by Manor Grange, which was the name of the house, and I was drawn into discussions on medieval tiles and linen fold paneling, for the roof was faulty and we had to find the right tiles for repair, which was not easy, as they had to be both ancient and in good condition.

There was a long gallery for which my mother was collecting pictures. Aunt Amaryllis gave her some and my grandparents said she could choose what she wanted from Cador. I could have shared her enthusiasm if Benedict had not been part of it.

Above the gallery were the attics—big rooms with sloping ceilings which would be the servants’ quarters. Mr. and Mrs. Emery had been down to see the rooms they would have and had expressed their delight.

“You must move in before the wedding,” my mother had told her, “just to get everything ready for when we return … Perhaps you could go about a week before.”

Mrs. Emery thought that would be excellent.

“It will be necessary to engage more staff,” said my mother. “We’ll have to go into that carefully.”

Mrs. Emery agreed, bristling with pride which the responsibility of being in charge of a larger household brought her.

It was arranged that the furniture my mother wanted to keep should go down a week or so before the wedding. Our house would be put up for sale and the week before the wedding my mother and I would stay with Aunt Amaryllis and Uncle Peter. My grandparents, who would be coming to London for the wedding, would stay there also.

It was with great pleasure that the Emerys installed themselves in the new house, taking Jane and Ann with them. The Emerys immediately set about engaging more staff. They had changed overnight; they bristled with importance. Mrs. Emery affected black bombazine which rustled as she walked; she had also acquired jet beads and earrings which seemed to be the insignia of housekeeping dignity. She had assumed a new aura; she was imperious and formidable. Mr. Emery was only slightly less so. He was most carefully dressed in a morning coat with striped trousers. There was a world of difference in being butler to Mr. Benedict Lansdon, M.P., from handyman at the small residence of Mrs. Mandeville.

My mother laughed immoderately about the attitude of the servants and I laughed with her. So there were times when we seemed as close as we had ever been.

Then there was the house which was to be our London residence. It was tall, elegant and Georgian, situated in a London square opposite enclosed gardens. It was similar to that of Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis, only Benedict Lansdon’s—naturally—was even more grand. There was a spacious hall and a wide staircase, ideal for receiving guests before they were conducted to the lofty drawing room on the first floor where of course a Member of Parliament with high ambitions would do a great deal of entertaining. It was furnished with expensive simplicity—red and white with a touch of gold here and there. I wondered if I should ever feel it was home to me. I believed I would always think longingly of my room in our old house which was about half the size of the one allocated to me here. Miss Brown’s was almost as large. Then we had a schoolroom on the same floor—very different from the little box of a room where Miss Brown and I used to work.

Miss Brown was as delighted by the change as the Emerys but she did not show it so blatantly. I wondered if I should have shared their pleasure in our more opulent way of life if I had not had to accept Benedict Lansdon with it.

It was coming closer. The servants had left for Manorleigh; my mother and I had moved in with Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis and the preparations seemed more intensive than ever. Nobody spoke of anything but the wedding.

My grandparents arrived. I was allowed to join the dinner party. Uncle Peter had said that as soon as the children came of a reasonable age they should do so because it was good for them to listen to the conversation of adults which gave them confidence. I have to admit to being a little fascinated by him. He was always so charming to everyone and made me feel that, young as I was, I was of some importance. There was none of that “not for the children” attitude from him. He would often address me and sometimes when he was talking at the table his eyes would meet mine and it was almost as though there was a secret understanding between us. What made him so attractive was that aura of wickedness about him. I knew there was something, but I was not sure what. It set him apart, some scandal from the past which he had overridden and from which he had emerged triumphantly by snapping his fingers at conventions. Mystery was very attractive. I was constantly trying to find out what he had done but no one would tell me.

It was strange because he reminded me so much of Benedict. I had the feeling that when he was Benedict’s age he must have been rather like his grandson. Scandal had touched them both … and neither of them had allowed it to destroy him. There was something indestructible about him. I hated Benedict. I had admitted it at last. And it was because I was afraid of him. But on the other hand, because I had nothing to fear from Uncle Peter, I was fond of him.

There was no doubt that Uncle Peter was delighted by the coming marriage; he beamed his approval. He was certain that Benedict was going to succeed and politics had always fascinated him. He himself had planned such a career and whatever that scandalous thing was in his past, it had put an end to it. But he lived politics through his son-in-law Martin Hume. I had heard it said: “Martin is Peter’s puppet.” I wondered if this was so. I could well believe it. And now Benedict was to follow that tradition. But of one thing I was certain: Benedict would never be anyone’s puppet.

Uncle Peter was very rich. So was Benedict. I had an inkling that they had both come to be wealthy in a rather shady way.

I wished I knew more. What frustration it is to be young … when people hide things from you and you can only glean little pieces of information. It is like fitting together a jigsaw puzzle with the most important bits missing.

Conversation at the dinner table was all about the wedding and the honeymoon which was to be in Italy. They would not go to France because that was where my mother had had her first honeymoon with my father. She used to tell me about the little hotel in the mountains overlooking the sea, where they had stayed.

“I wouldn’t stay away too long,” said Uncle Peter. “You don’t want the people of Manorleigh to think their new M.P. is deserting them.”

“We shall be away a month,” my mother told him, and, seeing Uncle Peter looked a little shocked, she added: “I insisted.”

“So you see,” said Benedict, “I had to agree.”

“I am sure the electorate of Manorleigh would realize that a honeymoon is a rather special occasion,” put in my grandfather.

My mother smiled at Uncle Peter. “You are always saying that the people love romance. I think they might have been disappointed in us if we had cut it short.”

“Good reasoning perhaps,” conceded Uncle Peter.

When we went to our rooms that night, my grandmother followed me up.

“I wanted to have a little talk,” she said. “Where shall you be while you are waiting for them to come back?”

I said: “I can stay here.”

“Is that what you want?”

I hesitated. The tenderness in her voice touched me deeply, and I was horrified to discover that I was near to tears.

“I … I don’t know,” I said.

“I thought you didn’t.” She smiled brightly. “Why don’t you come back with us? Your grandfather and I were talking about it coming up in the train and said how nice it would be if you decided to come and stay with us for a while. Miss Brown could come and … well, you might as well be at Cador as here.”

“Oh … I’d like that.”

“Then it’s settled. Aunt Amaryllis won’t mind. She’d understand that you might feel a little lonely here, whereas a complete change of scene … we all know you love Cador … to say nothing of how we should love to have you.”

“Oh, Granny,” I cried, and flung myself into her arms.

I did weep a little but she pretended not to notice.

“It’s the best time of the year for Cornwall,” she said.

So they were married. My mother looked beautiful in a dress of pale lavender and a hat of the same color with an ostrich feather to shade her face. Benedict looked very distinguished; everyone said what a handsome pair they made.

There were many important people there and they all came back to the house where Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis played their accustomed role of host and hostess.

Uncle Peter was obviously pleased by the way in which everything had gone. As for myself, my depression had deepened. All my hopes for the miracle which was going to stop the marriage had come to nothing. Heaven had turned from me and my prayers had fallen on deaf ears. My mother, Mrs. Angelet Mandeville, was now Mrs. Benedict Lansdon.

And he was my stepfather.

Everyone was assembled in the drawing room; the cake had been cut, the champagne drunk, the speeches made. It was time for the departure on the honeymoon.

My mother had gone to her room to change. As she passed me she said: “Rebecca, come with me. I want to talk.”

Willingly I followed her.

When we were in her bedroom she turned to me, concern showing on her face.

“Oh Becca,” she said, “I wish I hadn’t got to leave you.”

I felt a rush of happiness and, fearing to show my true feelings, I said: “I could hardly expect to go with you on your honeymoon.”

“I’ll miss you.”

I nodded.

“I hope you’ll be all right. I am so glad you are going to Cornwall. It’s where you’d rather be, I know. You do love them so much, don’t you … and Cador …?”

I nodded again.

She held me tightly in her arms.

“When I come back … it’s going to be wonderful. You’ll share things with us …”

I just smiled and pretended that I was content. I had to. I could not spoil the happiness which I knew was hers.

I stood with the others waving goodbye.

My grandmother was beside me. She took my hand and pressed it.

The next day I was with them on our way to Cornwall.