The Changeling

The Waiting Months

MY GRANDMOTHER WAS RIGHT. Spring is undoubtedly the best time in Cornwall. I felt better when I smelt the sea. I stood at the carriage window as we chuffed through red-soiled Devon where the train ran close to the sea for a few miles … then leaving lush Devon behind and crossing the Tamar into Cornwall which had its own special fey quality to be found nowhere else.

And in time we had arrived. The station master greeted us and one of the grooms was waiting with the carriage to take us to Cador. I felt more emotional than usual when I saw the grey stone walls and those towers facing the sea; and I knew I had been right to come.

My familiar room was ready for me and soon I was at the window watching the gulls swooping and screeching and the white frothy waves slightly ruffled by the breeze blowing in from the southwest.

My grandmother looked in and said: “I’m glad you came. Your grandfather was afraid you might not.”

I turned and smiled at her. “Of course I came,” I said, and we laughed together.

Miss Brown was pleased to be in Cornwall although I think she was looking forward to being in her new grand quarters at Manorleigh and in London.

“The change will be good,” she said. “A bridge between the old and new way of life.”

I slept more deeply that night than I had for some time and was undisturbed by the vague dreams which had haunted my sleep lately. Benedict Lansdon was usually somewhere in those dreams … a rather sinister figure. I told no one of them. I knew people would say I was building up feelings against him for no other reason than that I resented a stepfather. And perhaps they would be right.

The next day at breakfast, my grandmother said: “What shall you do today?”

“Well, Miss Brown thinks we should waste no more time. Lessons have been a little interrupted lately and she thinks we should get down to normal work without delay.”

My grandmother grimaced. “What does that mean … lessons in the morning?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Is that the law?” asked my grandfather.

“As unalterable as that of the Medes and the Persians,” replied my grandmother.

“I was hoping we’d have a ride together today,” he went on. “Perhaps this afternoon, as this morning seems to be devoted to work.”

“You ought to go and see Jack and Marian,” said my grandmother. “They’ll be put out if you don’t take Rebecca along.”

Jack was my mother’s brother. One day he would inherit Cador and he had been brought up to manage the estate. This he did with the same single-mindedness which his father had always shown. He did not live at Cador now although I supposed in due course he would come back to the ancestral home. He, with his wife and five-year-old twins, lived at Dorey Manor—a lovely Elizabethan manor-house. They were often at Cador. On his marriage he had expressed a desire for a separate household, which I think was due to his wife who, although she was very fond of my grandmother, was the sort of woman who would want to be absolute mistress in her own household. It seemed an excellent arrangement.

Dorey Manor had been the home of my grandfather before his marriage, so it was all part of the Cador estate.

“We’ll look in on them this afternoon,” said my grandfather. “Agreed, Rebecca?”

“Of course. I am longing to see them.”

“Then that’s settled.”

“I’ll tell them to get Dandy ready for you.”

“Oh yes, please.”

It felt like coming home. This was my own family. My likes and dislikes were remembered. My dear Dandy, whom I always rode in Cornwall, was waiting for me. He was so called because there was an elegance about him. He was beautiful and seemed fully aware of the fact. He was graceful in all his movements and seemed fond of me in a certain rather disdainful way. “He’s a regular dandy,” one of the grooms had said of him, and that was the name he became to be known by.

Galloping along the beach, cantering across the meadows, I would forget for a while that Benedict Lansdon had taken my mother from me.

My grandmother said suddenly: “Do you remember High Tor?”

“That lovely old house?” I asked. “Weren’t there new people there?”

“The Westcotts, yes. But they were only renting. When Sir John Persing died there was no family left. The trustees of the estate wanted to sell … and they let it in the meantime. That was how the Westcotts came. Well, there are some new people there now … French.”

“A kind of refugee,” said my grandfather.

“How interesting. Do you know them?”

“We are on nodding terms. They’ve come over from France after the trouble there … or before perhaps … seeing it coming.”

“The trouble?”

“Now don’t tell your grandfather you don’t know what’s been happening in France. He’ll be horrified at your ignorance.”

“Wasn’t there a war, or something?”

“A war indeed—and a mighty defeat of the French by the Prussians. And it is because of this defeat that the Bourdons are here.”

“You mean they have left their own country?”

“Yes.”

“And are they going to live here?”

My grandmother shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. But at the moment they are at High Tor. I think they have taken the place on approval as it were with a view to buying. I expect a great deal will depend on what happens in France.”

“What are they like?”

“There are the parents and a son and daughter.”

“How interesting. Do people here like them?”

“Well, there is always prejudice against foreigners,” said my grandfather.

“The girl is rather sweet,” said my grandmother. “She’s Celeste. I’d say she was about sixteen, wouldn’t you, Rolf?”

“I imagine so,” replied my grandfather.

“And the young man … he’s very dashing … what would you say … twenty … twenty-one …?”

“Very likely. We might ask them over some time. Would you like that, Rebecca?”

“Oh yes … of course. I suppose-most things are just the same here as they always were.”

“Oh, we have our changes. As we’ve told you, we’ve had the French invasion. Apart from that, much remains the same. The October gales were a little more fierce last year and there was even more rain than usual, which did not please the farmers. Mrs. Polhenny is still sorting out the sheep from the goats, preaching the gospel of eternal damnation awaiting the sinners, which include most of us, herself being the only exception. And Jenny Stubbs is as bemused as ever.”

“Does she still go about singing to herself?”

My grandmother nodded. “Pour soul,” she said softly.

“And thinks she is going to have a baby?”

“Just the same, I’m afraid. But she is happy enough … so I suppose it is not as tragic to her as it seems to us.”

“It’s going to be a fine day,” said my grandfather. “I’ll look forward to our ride this afternoon.”

I left them at the breakfast table and went up to my room.

In the schoolroom Miss Brown would be waiting for me.

Dandy was saddled and ready for me in the stables.

“Nice to have ’ee back, Miss Rebecca,” Jim Isaacs, the groom, told me.

I told him it was nice to be back and as we were talking my grandfather arrived.

“Hello,” he said. “Are we all ready? Well then, we might as well go, Rebecca.”

It was good to be riding through those lanes. Everywhere was a profusion of wild flowers and the air was damp with the balmy smells of spring. In the fields the dandelions and daisies, the lady smocks and cuckoo flowers were blooming; and the birds were singing rapturously because spring was here. I told myself I had been right to come.

“Where would you like to go after Dorey Manor? Down to the sea, back over the moors or just a ride in the country lanes?”

“I don’t mind. I’m just glad to be here.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said.

We made our way to Dorey Manor. Aunt Marian came out to greet us, holding a twin by each hand.

She embraced me warmly.

“Jack,” she called. “Come and see who’s here.”

Uncle Jack came running down the stairs.

“Rebecca.” He hugged me. “Lovely to see you. How are you, eh?”

“Very well, Uncle, and you?”

“Better than ever now I’ve seen you. How did the wedding go?”

I told them that all had gone according to plan.

The twins were tugging at my skirts. I looked down at them. They were adorable—Jacco and Anne-Mary. Jacco after that young man who had drowned in Australia with his parents, and Anne-Mary taking part of my grandmother’s name Annora and part from her mother Marian.

They leaped round me, expressing their pleasure. Anne-Mary asked with great gravity if I knew that she was four and three-quarters and would be five in June. She added, as though it were a matter for great surprise: “Jacco will be too.”

I expressed great interest in the fact and then listened to Jacco telling me how well he could ride.

We went into the house in which my grandfather took great pride. It had been almost beyond repair when he and his parents had restored it. They had been lawyers and my grandfather was trained in his profession but he had abandoned all that most willingly to devote himself to Cador.

Jack proudly showed us the recent restoration of the linen fold panelling while Marian brought out a decanter of her homemade wine. There was talk about the estate and of course the wedding. Marian wanted to hear all about that.

“What a different life it will be for Angelet,” said Jack.

“Most exciting, I am sure,” added Marian.

And I felt one of those twinges of sadness and resentment which I knew would be with me for a long time.

We left them in due course and continued our ride. We went inland for a mile or so. I looked ahead to the grey stone house built on a slight hillock.

“High Tor,” commented my grandfather. “Hardly a tor. Just a little high ground.”

“All the same, it must be draughty when the winds blow,” I said.

“But compensated by the superb views of the countryside. The walls are thick and they have stood up to the storms for at least a couple of hundred years. I daresay the Bourdons manage to keep snug enough inside.”

“It must be rather sad to be driven out of one’s country.”

“There is an alternative. Stay and take the consequences.”

“It must be a difficult decision. I could not see you ever leaving Cador.”

“I hope such an eventuality would never occur.”

“Cador would be quite different without you, Grandfather.”

“I loved it the moment I saw it. But I can understand those people in a way. Remember, the great revolution is not so far back; and the defeat by the Prussians must have unnerved them.”

We were walking our horses along a winding path when we heard the sound of hoofs a little way off. Then we were confronted by two riders—a girl of about sixteen and a young man a few years older.

“Good morning,” said my grandfather.

“Good morning,” they both replied, their French accent discernible in those two short words, so I guessed who they were.

“Rebecca,” said my grandfather, “This is Monsieur Jean Pascal Bourdon and Mademoiselle Celeste Bourdon. My granddaughter Rebecca Mandeville.”

Two pairs of bright, alert, dark eyes studied me intently.

The girl was attractive with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin. Her riding habit fitted her womanly figure perfectly and she sat her horse with a grace which was immediately apparent. The same description could also be applied to the young man. He was lithe and handsome with smooth almost black hair and a ready smile.

“Are you settling happily?” asked my grandfather.

“Oh yes … yes … we settle very well, do we not, Celeste?”

“We settle very well,” she repeated carefully.

“That’s splendid. My wife wanted you all to come over and have luncheon one day,” went on my grandfather. “Do you think that will be possible?”

“It would be a grand plaisir.”

“Your parents … and both of you … how’s that?”

The girl said: “We like very much …”

Her brother added: “Yes, very much.”

“It must be soon,” added my grandfather. “Rebecca’s home is in London and we don’t know how long she will be staying with us.”

“Very nice,” they said.

The men doffed their hats and we went on our way.

“They seem very pleasant,” said my grandfather; and I agreed.

“I think it is time we started back,” he said. “We spent longer than I intended at Dorey. Still, you had to see Marian and Jack and the twins.”

On our way home we went past Mrs. Polhenny’s cottage with the prim curtains drawn across all the windows. I thought of Leah working away at her embroidery behind one of them and started once more to wonder about her.

My grandmother was interested to hear of our encounter with the Bourdons. “I’ll think about making a date right away,” she said.

There were no schoolroom meals at Cador. I took them with my grandparents. They said that they did not see me often enough and did not want to lose a moment of my company. Miss Brown had her meals with us too.

That evening we talked of the Bourdons. My grandmother had already sent a note over to High Tor inviting them.

“I am so sorry for people who find it necessary to leave their countries,” my grandmother was saying.

“We had a great number of them over here at the end of last century,” added my grandfather.

Miss Brown remarked that the French Revolution was a dreadful piece of history. “We shall be covering it when you have finished with the English Prime Ministers, Rebecca.” She added, turning to my grandparents: “I thought she should know something of them, as she will soon be living in political circles.”

“An excellent idea,” said my grandfather. “How interesting it must be.”

“These leaders are so important,” said my grandmother.

“The trouble is,” said Miss Brown, “that some of them are not truly fitted for the post. Perhaps all great men have some flaws.”

“As the rest of us do,” said my grandfather.

“Napoleon the Third certainly had his.”

“You know who he is, Rebecca?” My grandfather had turned to me. He never left me out of the conversation.

“Well, he was the French Emperor before the war, wasn’t he?”

“Exactly. It is a great mistake for people to have responsibility simply because they are related to the great. There was only one Napoleon. We did not need a second or a third.”

“I suppose it is their name,” I said. “And they have a right to it.”

“His father was Louis Bonaparte, King of Holland, brother of the first Napoleon, and his mother Hortense de Beauharnais, Napoleon the First’s stepdaughter,” said Miss Brown, who could never resist turning any conversation into a lesson. “From an early age he wanted to follow in his uncle’s footsteps.”

“So he succeeded in becoming Emperor,” said my grandmother.

“And his early career was one disaster after another,” continued my grandfather who was as interested in history as Miss Brown. “His vainglorious attempts to call attention to himself resulted in a term of imprisonment. First he was shipped to the United States and then he came here to England where he was for a while, but he saw his chance with the outbreak of the revolution in ’48, returned to France, acquired a seat in the National Assembly, and started to work for the imperial title.”

“Well, he succeeded in getting it, apparently,” said my grandmother.

“Yes, for a time.”

“Quite a long time, I believe,” she replied.

“He wanted a name to compare with that of his uncle. But he hadn’t the same genius.”

“And where did Napoleon’s genius lead him?” demanded my grandmother.

“Elba and St. Helena,” I cut in, eager to show them that I knew something of what they were talking about.

Miss Brown threw me a glance of approval.

“All might have been well,” continued my grandfather, “if he had not become jealous of the growing power of Prussia, and underestimated it. He provoked war with Prussia. He thought he could defeat them easily and win glory for himself. He reckoned without the discipline of the Prussians. He must have known his fate was sealed at Sedan.”

“And then the Bourdons decided to get away,” I said, trying to turn the conversation to a subject of more immediate concern to us.

“Very far-seeing indeed,” said my grandfather. “Revolution in Paris … disaster for Napoleon III. And as a consequence we have the Empress and her son at Camden House in Chislehurst … and the Emperor has now joined her … no longer a prisoner … but an exile from his country.”

“Like the Bourdons,” I said.

My grandmother smiled at me. “You should never let your grandfather get on to history,” she said. “There is no stopping him once he gets started.”

“A fascinating subject,” said Miss Brown with a smile.

Just as we were leaving the dining room, one of the grooms came in with a note for my grandmother.

The Bourdons were all delighted to accept her kind invitation to luncheon.

They came as arranged and it was a very interesting meeting.

Monsieur and Madame Bourdon were, as my grandmother commented afterwards, typically French. He had a trim pointed beard, crisp dark hair and a very gallant manner. He kissed hands … even mine … and the look he gave my grandmother was clearly one of admiration. Madame was a good-looking woman and her vivacity and charm made her seem ten or fifteen years younger than she must have been. She was inclined to be plump; her hair was faultlessly dressed and her large brown eyes gave the impression that she missed little. Their English was barely adequate, but I found that quaint and charming.

The son and daughter were like their parents and I detected similar qualities. The young man’s gallantry and awareness of feminine society for instance; the girl’s svelte appearance.

They admired Cador’s impressiveness and antiquity; and my grandmother said she would show them the house after luncheon if they wished to see it. Monsieur Bourdon said it would be a great pleasure, Madame declared it would give her immense delight, and the son and daughter echoed their parents’ words.

Over lunch they talked of the terrible events in their country which had led to their exile.

I gathered that Madame Bourdon was acquainted with the Empress Eugenie and that Monsieur Bourdon had, on several occasions, been admitted to the society of Napoleon III.

“Now that our Emperor and Empress are in England … we feel that we must be with them,” said Monsieur Bourdon haltingly.

My grandmother asked them how much they liked High Tor.

“Very well … very well,” was their reply.

“Do you think you will return to France?” asked my grandfather.

Monsieur Bourdon put the palms of his hands together and shook his head from side to side, shrugging his shoulders at the same time.

“It could be … yes. It could be … no. La République.” He grimaced. “If the Emperor returns …”

“I should hardly think he would do that for a very long time,” said my grandfather.

“And in the meantime he lives in exile,” added my grandmother. “I wonder how they feel about that. It must be strange to go from all the pomp and ceremony of the French Court to quiet Chislehurst.”

“Perhaps he is happy to escape to that quiet spot.”

I noticed that Jean Pascal was watching Jenny, the parlormaid who was serving at table. Their eyes met as she held a dish of vegetables for him. She was flushed. Jenny was interested in young men, I knew. I promised myself that I would try to find out what she thought of this one.

When the meal was over we showed them over Cador.

I was with them. I liked to hear my grandfather explain the history of the place. He loved the topic so much and spoke so enthusiastically that my grandmother gently put an end to his discourse which she feared might be boring to the guests.

We were in the gallery in which were displayed some old tapestries, some in the region of five hundred years old, when Madame Bourdon became very excited.

“Cette tapisserie … it is … how you say? … er … made right?”

“Repaired? Oh yes. We had to have it done. I think it was mended rather well.”

“But … it is very good.”

“You noticed.”

“My wife … she is very interested,” explained Monsieur Bourdon. “We have some tapisserie … very good … very old … Gobelins … You understand?”

“Indeed yes,” said my grandmother. “That must be wonderful.”

Jean Pascal, who was more fluent in our language than his parents were, said that they had brought some of their most valuable tapestry with them. They had been going to have it repaired in France, but if there was someone who could repair it as well as ours had been done, perhaps it would be possible for theirs to be done here.

“It was a young girl living quite near here who restored these two years ago,” said my grandmother. “She is very clever with her needle, as you see. She is a professional seamstress and does embroidery on garments and such things which are sold in the shops in Plymouth … at quite high prices I imagine.”

Madame Bourdon became very excited.

“If you could tell my mother where to find this embroiderer, she would be very grateful to you,” said Jean Pascal.

My grandmother was thoughtful. She glanced at my grandfather. “It’s Leah,” she said, “and that makes it a little awkward. You know how Mrs. Polhenny was about letting Leah come up here.”

She turned to our guests. “I will speak to the girl’s mother and ask her if she will allow the girl to go to High Tor. You see, her mother likes her to work at home.”

“We will pay well …” began Jean Pascal.

“Leave it to me. I will do what I can.”

We left it at that and there was a great deal of talk about tapestry. Apparently the Bourdons had some priceless pieces in their collection—one from the Chateau of Blois and another which had been in Chambord.

“It was risk bringing them over,” said Jean Pascal, “but my mother could not bear to leave them behind, and some of them did get a little damaged in transport.”

When they left, my grandmother assured them that the next day she would go to the Polhenny cottage and would let them know the result immediately.

The next afternoon my grandmother said she was going to beard Mrs. Polhenny in her den and would I care to accompany her? I said I would.

We walked into the town, talking about the Bourdons and the possibility of Mrs. Polhenny’s allowing Leah to go up to High Tor to do the work.

“It would mean she would have to stay up there for several weeks, I expect.”

“Why should she not go each day?”

“Well, I think she needs the very best light to do the work. She might get there and find the light no longer any good. I think she would have to be on the spot.”

“Why shouldn’t Mrs. Polhenny want her to stay there?”

“Mrs. Polhenny sees evil all around her … even where it doesn’t exist … and she expects the worst. She wants Leah to live in the shelter of her own home where a watchful eye can be kept on her.”

We reached the cottage. The windows gleamed, the pebbles on the path looked as though they had been freshly polished, the porch steps had been recently scrubbed. We knocked at the door.

There was a long pause. We listened and thought we could hear a movement within. My grandmother called out: “It’s Mrs. Hanson and Rebecca. Is that you, Leah?”

The door opened and there was Leah. She looked flushed, uncertain and very pretty.

“My mother is not in,” she said. “She was called up to Egham Farm. Mrs. Masters has started.”

“Oh,” said my grandmother, and then: “May we come in for a moment?”

“Oh, yes … of course. Please do,” replied Leah.

We were taken into the parlor. I noticed that the brass ornaments had been polished to a dazzling brilliance. There was a sofa with two cushions placed at symmetrical angles; the antimacassars on the backs of the chairs were spotless and there were arm covers on the chairs to prevent contamination from those who sat in them.

We scarcely dared sit.

“Shall I ask Mother to come and see you when she returns? I don’t know when it will be. You can never be sure with babies.”

“Well, this actually concerns you, Leah,” said my grandmother. Leah must be about eighteen years old after all. It was an age to make one’s own decisions. But she was clearly a meek girl and Mrs. Polhenny was a formidable parent. “You know the French people?”

“Those at High Tor,” said Leah.

My grandmother nodded. “They took luncheon with us yesterday and while they were there they saw the work you had done on the tapestries.”

“Oh, I loved doing that, Mrs. Hanson.”

“I know you did. It was a change, wasn’t it? Well, apparently they have some fine tapestries up there. They mentioned Gobelins. You know of them, Leah? Of course you do. They are some of the finest in the world. They are very ancient and in need of repair. Having seen what you did to ours …”

Leah looked excited.

“In fact, they would like to talk to you about repairing theirs.”

“Oh, I should love to do that. I get a little tired of working rosebuds and butterflies on ladies’ petticoats.”

“This would be different, wouldn’t it? And fancy … they have been worked by people hundreds of years ago.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You would be expected to stay up there while you did the work. You would need the best of light and the journey to and fro would be a little too long … there and back.”

She nodded. Then she said: “My mother did not like my being away from home … even with you.”

“Well, that is what I came to discuss. I promised Monsieur and Madame Bourdon that I would ask you. They would pay you very well. I imagine you could name your price.”

I studied her. She was very pretty; and now that she was excited, this was more obvious.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

“That would be very acceptable,” replied my grandmother.

She left us. We looked round the little room and I knew what my grandmother was thinking. It had an unlived-in look. I could not imagine that this was a very happy home. There would be too much striving after what was right and proper in the eyes of that martinet Mrs. Polhenny—and little thought of pleasure.

While we were drinking tea and nibbling homemade biscuits that lady herself came in.

She came straight into the parlor. She was surprised. Her eyes rested momentarily on me and I wondered if I was doing something I should not and perhaps spoiling the perfection of her brown velvet-covered armchair.

“Mrs. Hanson …” she began.

“You must forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Polhenny,” said my grandmother. “Leah has given us tea and your oatmeal biscuits are delicious.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Polhenny, smiling, “I’m glad she made tea for you.”

“How was it at the farm?”

“Another boy.” Her face softened. “A lovely healthy boy. They’re pleased. Rather a long labor but everything going well. I shall be keeping my eyes on them. I’ll be getting back later today.”

“I’m glad all went well. We came to talk of a rather interesting proposition. We have mentioned it to Leah.”

“Oh, what was that?”

“You know we have those French refugees up at High Tor?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And Leah made such a good job of our tapestries. When they came to luncheon with us they saw what she had done. The fact is they would like her to do the same for them. Apparently they have some valuable pieces up there and they want someone to repair them. They would like Leah to do it.”

Mrs. Polhenny was frowning. “Leah has plenty of work here.”

“This would be different and more highly paid, I imagine.”

That did bring a glimmer of interest into Mrs. Polhenny’s eyes.

“It would mean her staying up there for a week or two … perhaps even more.”

Mrs. Polhenny’s face hardened. “Why couldn’t she go every day?”

“Well, it is a little far … that journey twice a day … and then there is the matter of catching the best of the light. It’s intricate work.”

“Leah wouldn’t want to be away from home.”

“Don’t you think she would enjoy a change? She’d be very comfortable up at High Tor and they would be very grateful to get the work done. Madame Bourdon was quite lyrical about her tapestry. You can see she loves it.”

“Leah has plenty of work here.”

“Do think about it, Mrs. Polhenny.”

“I think a young girl’s place is home with her mother.”

“But she wouldn’t be far away.”

“Couldn’t they send the tapestries here?”

“Impossible. They are big, I expect … and very valuable.”

“They could get somebody else.”

“They like Leah’s work. She is especially talented. This would be good for her. People might visit them and see her work … as they visited us. You don’t know what would come of it. You know we have the Emperor Napoleon and Empress Eugenie in England now. They are friends of Monsieur and Madame Bourdon. Who knows, Leah might be working for royalty.”

Mrs. Polhenny looked skeptical. “They’re a sinful lot, from what I hear.”

“Oh, Mrs. Polhenny, you can’t believe all you hear. I think this would be an excellent chance for her.”

“I don’t like my daughter to be away from home at night. I like to know she’s here … and I’m in the next room to her.”

“Don’t refuse right away. Think about it. Leah loved doing our tapestry. How much more interesting such work is than plain embroidery.”

“With foreigners!”

“They are the same as we are,” I said.

Mrs. Polhenny gave me a stern look. In her opinion, I was sure, young girls should be seen and not heard.

“Let’s leave it like this,” said my grandmother. “But think what it would be worth … financially.”

“I’d want her home every night.”

“I don’t think that would be feasible. She has to catch the best of the light and you know how predictable the weather is. A light morning can turn to a dull one and her journey would be wasted. And it is a little far. Just think about it. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with Madame Bourdon.”

So we left it at that.

As we walked away my grandmother said: “Sometimes I think Mrs. Polhenny is a little unbalanced. It’s a pity. She’s such an excellent midwife.”

“And a good housewife too, it seems. There’s nothing out of place in that cottage. It’s uncomfortably clean.”

My grandmother laughed. “It’s what is called a fetish and I don’t think that is a very healthy thing to have. Then, of course, there’s Leah. She can’t have a very happy life. Poor girl, it must be difficult to live up to that perfection. And the way she guards the girl … it’s really unnatural.”

“She seems afraid that Leah might do something … terrible.”

My grandmother nodded and said: “I do hope she will see sense. I tried to persuade her. I thought I detected a glimmer of interest when I talked of money.”

“Yes, so did I.”

“Well, we’ll have to wait and see. I’ll write a note to Madame Bourdon and tell her of the reluctance. Perhaps if the money were tempting enough …”

So we should have to wait and see.

A letter came from my mother. She was wonderfully happy, she wrote, and she hoped I was enjoying Cornwall. What she was looking forward to about coming home was seeing me. She hoped I would be in London when she arrived. We would stay a few days there and then go down to Manorleigh. It was going to be so exciting.

“You will be able to help us in the political work. It will be great fun and I know that you will enjoy it. Oh, Becca, we’re going to be so happy together … the three of us.”

So she wanted me there when she returned.

I showed the letter to my grandmother.

“She’s very happy,” she said smiling. “It comes out, doesn’t it? You can sense it. We must be happy for her, Rebecca. She deserves to be happy.”

“I must be there when she comes back,” I said.

“Yes, your grandfather and I will go up with you. I should like a few days in town.”

So it was arranged.

The last day arrived. I rode in the morning, Miss Brown was busy packing. In the afternoon I took a walk to the pool. I saw Jenny on the way. She was singing softly to herself happy in the certainty that she would soon have her baby.

She was certainly, as my grandmother would say, unbalanced. I suppose the same description could be applied to Mrs. Polhenny because of her preoccupation with sin.

We heard that she had succumbed to the lure of money, that Leah had completed her commitments to the Plymouth customers, and was going to take a rest from such work and go up to High Tor to repair the Bourdon’s tapestries.

The next day we left for London. We went to Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis as we usually did. My mother and her husband were due to arrive in London the day after we did.

I was apprehensive, realizing how peaceful it had been in Cornwall and how preoccupied I had been with the matter of the Bourdon’s tapestries and Mrs. Polhenny’s addiction to virtue, as well as with Jenny Stubbs singing happily in the lanes.

That was far away and now I had to face the grim reality.

I thought Uncle Peter was strangely quiet. Usually he dominated the scene. When I asked him how he was he said he was well and busy as usual and very much looking forward to the return of the married couple.

“Now we shall see something,” he said. “Benedict is not the man to stand still.”

The pride and admiration in his voice annoyed me. Why must everyone have this immense respect for the man!

The day came. The cab arrived at the door. We were all waiting to greet them. And there was my mother, looking beautiful and I noticed with a pang—half regret, half pleasure-looked as radiant as she had before she left, or perhaps even more so.

I flung myself into her arms.

“Oh Becca, Becca,” she said. “How I’ve missed you! Everything would have been perfect if you had been there.”

Benedict was smiling at me. He took my hands in his. My mother was watching us … willing me to show my pleasure. So I smiled as brightly as I could.

She had brought a china plaque for me to hang on my wall. On it had been painted a picture of a woman who bore a strong resemblance to Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia of which I had once seen a copy and had loved it. She had remembered this.

“It’s lovely,” I said.

“We chose it together.”

And again I smiled at him.

After dinner, I was to go back with them to his London house and I was not looking forward to it. I felt it would indeed be the beginning of a new life.

There was a great deal of talk at dinner. Aunt Amaryllis wanted to hear about Italy and the honeymoon; Uncle Peter was more interested in what plans Benedict had.

“We shall go down to Manorleigh as soon as possible,” said Benedict. “I don’t want my constituents to think that I am an absentee Member.”

“There’ll be lots for you to do, Angelet,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I know how it is with Helena.”

“Garden fêtes to open … bazaars … charities for this and that,” said my mother. “I’m prepared.”

“It will be nice to be at Manorleigh,” went on Aunt Amaryllis, “and you’ll have the town house as well. What could be more convenient?”

“It’s a blessing that Manorleigh happens to be so near London,” said Benedict. “It’ll make the journey to and fro so much easier.”

“What on earth would have happened if your constituency had been in Cornwall?”

“I can only thank Heaven that it was not.”

I wished it had been. Then I could have been with my grandparents for much of the time. But I would still visit them … frequently. I must remember that. If ever life became too difficult with him … I had my escape.

When the meal was over I left with my mother and her husband for his house. My grandparents were staying with Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis and going back to Cornwall in a few days.

As we walked to the house, my mother linked her arm through mine. He was on the other side of her; they were arm in arm. Anyone seeing us would have thought what a happy family we were and none would have guessed at the turmoil within me.

I felt lost in the big house and a desolate sense of not belonging. It was such a grand house. As soon as I entered it I felt as though every part of it was looking down its nose, demanding to know what I was doing there. Everything looked as though it had cost a great deal of money. There were heavy red curtains, their rich folds held in place by thick bands which in any other house one would have dismissed as brass. The walls were white and looked as though they had been freshly painted. The furniture was elegant—of an earlier period—Georgian, I think, to fit the house. Above the wide staircase hung an enormous chandelier. It was at the top of that staircase that my mother and her new husband would receive their guests. Beyond, on the first floor, were the enormous dining and drawing rooms. I could never feel at home in such a house.

My room was large and lofty with a tall window which looked down on the street. It was heavily curtained in deep blue velvet and there were lace curtains to shut out the street. My bed had a blue headpiece to match the curtains and there were hints of blue in the carpet. It was a beautiful room but not one to feel at home in.

I was glad when we left for Manorleigh.

There was a house which I could really love if it had not been his. I felt I could escape a little more in the country. There were the stables, so it was possible to ride often. Manorleigh itself was a small town but as Manor Grange was a short carriage drive outside it, it seemed to be in the country.

This was the constituency so there was a good deal to do there. Benedict was determined to show all the people who had elected him what an excellent M.P. he was and they were encouraged to call and discuss their problems.

Eager to be the perfect wife, my mother threw herself whole-heartedly into his life. It was a busy one. They would travel round the constituency which extended several miles into the surrounding countryside and it included many villages and several small towns.

“Your stepfather does not wish anyone to feel neglected,” said my mother.

It was an embarrassment to mention him. She would have liked me to call him Father but even for her I could not do that. As for him, I was not sure what he wanted. He was too clever not to know how I felt about him, even though my mother tried to pretend that my hostility did not exist. He would not let it be of any great concern to him. It was my mother who was unhappy about it although she showed nothing. I was glad of that because if she had told me how unhappy my attitude made her I should have had to do something about it and I did not want to. I realize now that I had a certain satisfaction in harboring my resentment.

Still, I did like Manorleigh. So did Miss Brown.

We were still working on the Prime Ministers and were now concerned with Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone.

“Of course,” said Miss Brown, “it is not easy to discover little facts about our contemporaries. It is only when people are dead that their little secrets come out.”

We used to ride together and sometimes I went out with my mother and her husband. He liked that. It gave a good impression. I imagine he liked people to think that we were a happy family and in spite of his insouciance he must have realized he had something to live down on that score.

I grew to like my room. It had leaded windows, a great beam across the ceiling and the floor sloped a little. But what I liked best was that it looked down on the garden to an ancient oak tree under which was a sundial and a wooden seat. It was very picturesque and I felt a sense of peace when I looked out on it, past the pond on which floated water lilies and over which the figure of Hermes—winged sandals, staff wreathed with serpents, broad hat, sporting wings and all—was poised.

I found a great pleasure in making my way through the overgrown rosetrees and sitting for a while on that seat. It seemed so peaceful there.

As soon as we were settled in, the round of visits began. There were dinner parties and what were called soirées when perhaps some well-known musician would come and play the piano or violin. There were always important people to entertain. Fortunately I did not have to be present on these occasions. My mother seemed to enjoy them.

She said to me one day: “Do you know, Rebecca, I think I am turning into a good politician’s wife.”

“You mean, Mama,” I replied, “the good wife of a politician. The way you say it makes it sound as if it is the politician who is good.”

“Well, he is, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think that was what you meant to say.”

“I am glad to see Miss Brown is keeping you well versed in your grammar.” She looked faintly disturbed as she always did when Benedict—though not mentioned by name—crept into the conversation.

But it was true that she was enjoying her new way of life.

“I love meeting all those people,” she said. “Some of them are a trifle pompous. We have a good laugh over them afterwards.”

Yes. She shared things with him from which I was shut out.

I knew in my heart that I was being foolish and unfair. It was I who was deliberately shutting myself out. Sometimes I tried to accept the situation, and I would for a while. Then all the old resentments would flare up.

Mrs. Emery said she was unable to do justice to her new position as she was expected to do so much cooking.

“But, of course,” replied my mother. “How thoughtless of me. We must get someone to cook.”

Mrs. Emery was secretly delighted.

“I suppose,” I said to my mother, “a housekeeper is of higher rank than a cook … hence her delight.”

“Mrs. Emery will, of course, be in charge of the household.”

“As we have become grander, so has she,” I commented.

“Well, naturally so,” retorted my mother.

The news quickly circulated that the new member needed a cook at Manorleigh and Mrs. Grant appeared.

My mother liked her from the first and when she heard that her mother had been cook at Manorleigh and before that her grandmother, she knew that Mrs. Grant was the one for us.

She was a fat jolly woman with rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. She had masses of rather untidy fair hair and her ample figure suggested that she liked eating food as well as cooking it.

“All to the good,” said my mother. “You have to feel enthusiastic about something to do it well.”

Mrs. Grant took charge of the kitchen and it soon became clear that we had a treasure in her. She and I took a fancy to each other from the start and she soon discovered my fondness for the garden.

She was a great talker and liked me to go into the kitchen when she was, as she said, pampering herself with a nice cup of tea and giving her feet a treat at the same time.

“It’s my time of life,” she said. “I don’t like to stand more than I can help and a little sit-me-down in the afternoon … that’s a bit of heaven to me.”

One day she said to me: “You like the garden, don’t you?” She filled up her cup and poured one out for me. “Did you feel there was something special about it?”

“Yes,” I replied. “There is something about it. I think it is because of those overgrown trees. I hope no one touches them.”

“So do I. They wouldn’t like that.”

“Who?”

She grimaced and pointed upwards. I looked astonished and she drew her chair closer to mine.

“You’ve heard of houses being haunted, have you?”

I nodded.

“This is a bit different. This is a garden that’s haunted.”

“Is it really? I’ve never heard of a haunted garden.”

“Any place can be haunted. Doesn’t have to be within walls. I just had the feeling you’d found out something out there. You’re always sitting under that old oak. Why?”

“Well, it’s shut away. It’s peaceful there. When I’m sitting there I feel … apart.”

She nodded. “Well, that’s it. That’s the spirit. That’s where the ghost used to come.”

“Used to?”

“Well, there’d be no call for it now … not after Miss Martha went.”

“Tell me the story.”

“It was in my grandma’s day. She was the cook here. Lady Flamstead came … a lovely lady, my grandma said. She came here as a bride. He was a lot older than she was, Sir … what was his name? Ronald, I think.”

“What happened?”

“It was a happy marriage. Like two lovebirds, they were, my gran said. They all loved her. She was so young … so excited by it all. She hadn’t been used to a grand way of living … till he married her. She just enjoyed everything. Then came the day when she was going to have a baby. My gran said you should have seen the fuss. Sir Ronald … well, he wasn’t all that old, I suppose, but he was beside himself with joy … and as for Lady Flamstead, she was in heaven.”

“And …?” I prompted.

“Well, everyone was so pleased. They were making such plans. My gran said you’d have thought nobody had ever had a baby before. Nursery done up … little toys everywhere … and then … Lady Flamstead … she didn’t come through it. There was the baby they’d longed for … a little girl … but she was the end of her mother.”

“How terribly sad!”

“Yes, wasn’t it? The change in that house! They were all going to be so happy … You see, she was the one who had made it all like that. Without her … it was all changed. My gran said Sir Ronald … well, he was a good enough master, but he didn’t have much to do with any of them. She’d changed all that. They’d all loved her … and now she was gone.”

“They had the baby,” I said.

“Oh, poor Miss Martha. You see, he didn’t want her. I reckon he thought that but for her his little ladyship would still be there. And all he’d got was Miss Martha … a squalling red-faced little bit of nothing, in place of his lovely wife. He didn’t want to look at the child. It turns out like that sometimes. Oh, there was all the best for her … nurses, and later on governesses. She was a nice little thing, my gran said. She’d come to the kitchen like you are now. But there was no laughter in that house and a house without laughter is not much of a place … not if there’s a whole houseful of servants and all you get is the food to eat and fires in every room to keep you warm … if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean, Mrs. Grant. Where does the haunting come in?”

“Well … Miss Martha was about ten years old … your age, I reckon, when they started to notice. She’d go out there and sit under that tree on that seat you like so much. She’d be talking … we thought to herself. She changed at that time. She was a bit difficult to manage before. Into mischief rather. My gran said she was trying to remind people she was there because she thought her father had forgotten all about her.”

“It was very wrong of Sir Ronald to blame the child for her mother’s death.”

“Oh, he didn’t do that, exactly. He just couldn’t bear to be with her. I suppose he was reminded of what he had lost.”

“So she changed, you were saying.”

“She was more satisfied … peaceful like, so my gran said. And every day she’d be out there, talking away. They thought she was getting a little bit … peculiar.”

“What happened then to change her?”

“One of the maids thought she saw a figure in white there. It was dusk. It might have been the shadows. But she came running into the house, scared out of her wits. Miss Martha was there. She said, ‘It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s my mother. She comes here to talk to me.’ That explained a lot …the change in her … why she was always at that spot in the garden. Why she seemed to be talking to herself. She wasn’t talking to herself. She was talking to her mother.”

“So her mother came back …”

“Like as not she couldn’t rest … because she knew her daughter was unhappy. Miss Martha … she was apart from the rest of us like. A strange young lady. She never married. In time she inherited the house. They used to say she was a bit of a recluse. She wouldn’t have the garden changed. The gardeners used to get wild saying that this ought to come down and this and that be cut back. But she wouldn’t have it. She was quite old when she died. My mother was in the kitchen then.”

“Do you believe Lady Flamstead really came back?”

“My gran said she did and anyone who’d been there would have said it.”

“It does seem the sort of garden where anything could happen.”

Mrs. Grant nodded and went on sipping her tea.

After that I visited the seat often. I would sit there and think about Miss Martha. I felt a sympathy with her, though our situation was by no means similar. I had my mother, even though she had partially been withdrawn from our close relationship. But I did understand Martha’s feelings. She was unwanted because her coming had resulted in the departure of one who had been greatly loved; she was a poor consolation for what her father had lost.

One day my mother came out and found me sitting there.

“You’re often here,” she said. “You like it, don’t you? I think you are beginning to love this house.”

“It’s a very interesting house … particularly the garden … It’s haunted.”

She laughed. “Who told you that?”

“Mrs. Grant.”

“Of course … a descendant of the old retainers. My dear Rebecca, every self-respecting house over the age of a hundred years must have its ghost.”

“I know. But this is a rather unusual ghost. It’s in the garden.”

“Good Heavens! Where?” My mother looked round with an air of mock expectancy.

“In this very place. Please don’t mock. I have a feeling that ghosts don’t like to be laughed at. They are very seriously dedicated to their purpose in returning.”

“How knowledgeable you’ve become! You haven’t learned that from Miss Brown, I’m sure. Is it Mrs. Grant whom you have to thank?”

“Let me tell you about the ghost. Lady Flamstead was the young wife of Sir Ronald. He doted on her and she died when her baby was born. Sir Ronald couldn’t like the child because through her his wife had died. Poor little thing, she was very unhappy. Then one day she came out to the garden … she was about my age … and she sat in this seat and Lady Flamstead came back.”

“I thought you said she had died.”

“I mean she came back to Earth.”

“Oh … so she is the ghost.”

“She’s not a mischievous one or anything like that. She was kind and gentle and much loved in her life and she came back because her child was unhappy. Mrs. Grant said her grandmother believed it and so did those who had been there at the time. You don’t believe it, do you?”

“Well, these stories grow, you know. Someone imagines they see something … and someone else adds a bit … and there you have your ghost.”

“This was different. Miss Martha changed when her mother came back. She wouldn’t have the garden altered.”

“Is that why you’re here so often … hoping to see this ghost?”

“I don’t think she would come to me. She doesn’t know me. But I do feel there is something special about this spot, and when I heard the story it made it even more interesting. Mama, do you think it possible?”

She was silent for a few seconds. Then she said: “There are those who say all things are possible. There is a special tie between a mother and her child. It is thought the child is part of oneself …”

“Is that how you feel about me?”

She turned to me and nodded.

I felt very happy.

“I always shall, my darling,” she said. “Nothing will alter that.”

She was telling me that it was just the same as it ever was, and I felt happier than I had for a long time. I began to believe that eventually I might even accept Benedict Lansdon’s intrusion into our lives. I was not like poor Martha. My mother was with me. It was really the same as it had ever been. Nothing could alter that.

The next few months flew past. We had now fully settled into Manor Grange and the days had taken on a routine. My mother was deeply interested in my stepfather’s life; she clearly enjoyed it. Now and then they went to London. I was always asked if I would like to accompany them but sometimes I preferred to stay in the country. Miss Brown said it was better to. She did not like lessons to be interrupted and travelling to and forth must necessarily do that.

I often thought of Cornwall … so different from Manorleigh country, where the fields were like carefully fitted patches into a quilt; and even the trees looked as though they had been pruned. I rarely saw the strange, twisted and often grotesque shapes I encountered frequently in Cornwall … those trees which had been victim to the southwest gales. Here in the Manorleigh constituency the little country towns clustered round the greens, with the church spires rising among the trees. It all seemed comfortable, orderly, completely lacking that fey quality which one took for granted in Cornwall.

I often thought of Cador—and not without nostalgia. There were letters from the grandparents. They were constantly asking when we were going down.

That seemed a remote possibility now. Constituencies had to be nursed and Benedict Lansdon, his eyes on far-off goals, was assiduous in his treatment. And my mother was committed to help him. So it was a question of leaving my mother for my grandparents, or vice versa. At this time I wanted to be with my mother, for since our conversation in the garden I was reaching out for an understanding, and trying hard to cast off my prejudices against my stepfather—which in my heart I was not sure that I wanted to do.

November had come. I thought often of Cornwall. The pool looked eerie at this time of the year when it was often shrouded in mist. I had loved to go there with Miss Brown … never alone because I felt something fearful might happen to me there. So it had to be Pedrek, my mother or Miss Brown. Then I was disappointed because I did not hear the bells which were supposed to be at the bottom of the water. I was a fanciful child—perhaps because my grandfather had told me so many of the legends which abound in Cornwall. In Manorleigh, we were more precise. But at least it had the ghost of Lady Flamstead.

I was in bed one night when my mother came into my room.

“Not asleep, yet?” she said. “Oh good. I have something to tell you.”

I sat up, and she lay on the bed beside me, putting her arm round me as she had done many times before.

“I wanted you to know before it became common knowledge.”

I waited eagerly.

“Rebecca,” she said, “you would like a little brother or sister, wouldn’t you?”

I was silent. I might have guessed that this was a possibility, but I had not done so. It was a complete surprise to me and I was unsure how I felt about it.

“You’d love it, wouldn’t you, Becca?” she repeated appealingly.

“Oh … you mean … there is going to be a baby?”

She nodded and turned to me. I he radiance was on her. Whatever I felt, it was clear that she wanted this.

“I always felt that you would have liked a little sister, but you wouldn’t mind a brother, would you?”

“Yes …” I stammered. “Of course … I’d like that.”

Then I clung to her.

“I knew you’d be delighted,” she said.

I thought about it. Our household would be different. But a brother … or a sister. Yes, I did like the thought of it.

“It will be very young,” I said.

“Just at first … as we all were. I am sure it will be a wonderful child but not quite clever enough to jump right into maturity.”

“When will it be …?”

“Oh, not for a long time yet. The summer … June perhaps.”

“And what does he …?”

“Your stepfather? Oh, he is delighted. He wants a boy, of course. All men do. But I am certain that if it is a little girl she will be just what he wanted. But tell me, Becca, are you pleased?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Oh, yes.”

“That makes me very happy.”

“She won’t be my full sister, will she?”

“You’ve made up your mind the baby will be a girl. I suppose that is what you prefer.”

“I … I don’t know.”

“Well, the child will be your half-brother or half-sister.”

“I see.”

“It’s wonderful news, isn’t it? Everyone in the family is going to be so pleased.”

“Have you told the grandparents?”

“Not yet. I shall write tomorrow. I didn’t want to before I was sure. Oh, it is going to be marvelous. Of course, I shall not be able to get about so much later on. I shall be here … at home …”

She held me tightly against her.

She was right. It would be wonderful.

The news was out. My grandparents were delighted. They were going to spend Christmas with us. Uncle Peter thought the news was excellent. The voters liked their members to have satisfactory married lives. They liked to see the children coming along.

Mrs. Emery thought it was good news and Jane and Ann, together with the new maids who had been engaged, were all excited at the prospect of having a baby in the house.

It was wonderful to see the grandparents for Christmas. It was our first at Manor Grange. The house was decorated with holly, ivy, and mistletoe; the yule log was ceremoniously drawn in; Christmas Day was a family affair but on Boxing Day there was a dinner party for Benedict’s important friends in the Party. Mrs. Grant said she was run off her feet, but that was how it should be and she doubted Manor Grange had ever seen such entertaining before, which came of my stepfather’s being the M.P.

“As long as I can get my cup of tea and my little ‘feet-up’ I can cope with it,” she said. And she did, magnificently. Mr. Emery was able to play the dignified butler and Mrs. Emery to show us all that her post of housekeeper was no sinecure.

On Christmas morning we all went to church and walked back across the fields to the house. My grandmother slipped her arm through mine and told me how pleased she was that I seemed to be happier, and added that it was wonderful that I was to have a little brother or sister.

Christmas was the time of peace and goodwill and everything seemed hopeful on that day. I even liked Benedict Lansdon … well, not exactly liked, but admired. He was so gracious to everyone … all those dignitaries from the Party. His manners were easy—not quite so suave as some of the gentlemen but that gave them a touch of sincerity which people liked.

He kept a watchful eye on my mother and admonished her now and then for not resting enough. My grandparents looked on with approval at this. They were very happy indeed, and now that my grandmother had convinced herself—and I expect my grandfather—that I was becoming reconciled to the situation, there was nothing to disturb her.

My mother complained laughingly that we were all treating her like a semi-invalid. They should remember that she was not the first woman on Earth to have a baby. She was perfectly all right … and would they stop fussing? “And that includes you, Benedict,” she added.

Everyone laughed and so it was a happy Christmas, even for me … the last I was to know for a long time.

It seemed that my mother had returned to me to a certain extent. There were days when she felt the need to rest. I was with her. I used to read to her; she loved that. We were reading Jane Eyre which Miss Brown thought might be a little old for me, but my mother believed it was quite suitable.

Neither my mother nor my grandparents had tried to shield me from the facts of life as most guardians of children did. They believed that as I had to live a life I might as well know as much about it as I was able to absorb.

I realize it had made me a little old for my years. Pedrek was the same.

So this was a happier time than I had known since I had first heard that my mother was going to marry.

Then came the blow.

My stepfather was in London for the House was sitting. My mother had been going with him but just before they were about to leave she had been tired and Benedict had insisted that she remain at Manorleigh to rest.

I was delighted.

It was a bright March day, I remember. There was a chill in the air but I fancied I could feel the first signs of spring; there were masses of yellow blossoms among the shrubs. We made our way to what was known as my seat and sat there, looking across the pond where Hermes stood poised for flight.

We were talking of the baby … our main topic of conversation these days. When next we were in London, my mother was saying, she wanted to find some special baby linen she had heard about.

“You must help me choose,” she said.

Then one of the maids appeared. She told us that one of the servants from the London house had just arrived and wanted to see my mother. It turned out to be Alfred the footman.

My mother rose in alarm. “Alfred!” she cried.

“Pray do not be alarmed, Madam,” said Alfred.

My mother interrupted: “Something is wrong. Mr. Lansdon …”

Alfred found it difficult to discard his dignity even in a crisis. “Mr. Lansdon is well, Madam. It is on his orders that I am here. He thought it better for me to come than to communicate in the normal way. It is Mr. Peter Lansdon. He has been taken ill. The family is gathering at the house, Madam. Mr. Lansdon thought, that if you were well enough to travel, you might wish to be there.”

“Uncle Peter …” said my mother. She looked at Alfred. “What is wrong? Do you know?”

“Yes, Madam. Mr. Peter Lansdon suffered a stroke during the night. His condition is said to be … not good. It is for this reason …”

She said: “We will leave as soon as possible. Alfred, have you had something to eat? Go to Mrs. Emery. She will see to you while we prepare ourselves to leave.”

I took her arm and we went indoors. I could see that she was shaken.

“Uncle Peter,” she murmured. “I do hope he won’t … I do hope he’ll be all right. I always thought of him as … indestructible.”

We caught the three-thirty train to London and went straight to Uncle Peter’s house. Benedict was there. He embraced my mother tenderly and hardly seemed to notice me.

“I was afraid after I’d sent Alfred that it might have been a shock, darling,” he said. “I guessed you’d want to be here … but… actually he was asking for you.”

“How is he?”

Benedict shook his head.

Aunt Amaryllis came out, looking lost and bewildered. I had never seen her like that before. She seemed unaware that we were there.

“Aunt Amaryllis,” said my mother. “Oh … my dear …”

“He was all right just before,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I didn’t have a notion … and then suddenly … he just collapsed.”

We stood round his bed. He looked different … handsome, distinguished but different. He was very pale and seemed old … much older than when I had last seen him.

I looked at those round the bed … his family … the people who had been closest to him. I was struck by the incredulity in those faces. He was dying and they all knew it, and death was something one had never thought of in connection with Uncle Peter. But it had overtaken him at last and there he lay … the buccaneer who had adventured on the high seas of life … winning most of the time and often not too scrupulously, I had heard it whispered in the family. Only once had he come near to disaster. That was in connection with the rather notorious and disreputable clubs which he ran at great profit and on which his fortune had been founded. Then he had become a philanthropist, and a great deal of that money which had come through questionable sources had gone back into good works like the Mission run by his son Peterkin and his wife Frances.

I think we had all loved him. He was a rogue, yes, but a very wise one. I knew my mother had loved him as my grandmother had. He had always been kind and helpful. Amaryllis had adored him; she had refused to see any fault in him. The others realized his rogueries … and loved him none the less because of them.

And now he was dying.

There were pieces in the papers about him—the millionaire philanthropist, they called him. They were all saying flattering things about him and there was no hint of the manner in which his fortune had been acquired. To be dead is to be sanctified. I supposed it was because people ceased to be envious. Everybody wants to be a millionaire but nobody wants to be dead. So envy evaporates. Moreover, people often feel uneasy about defaming the dead … especially the newly dead. Perhaps there is a fear of haunting. “Never speak ill of the dead,” they say.

So Uncle Peter was remembered for his good deeds rather than his evil ones. There were many people at the funeral. Aunt Amaryllis was dazed with grief; and even Frances, whose brilliant work at the Mission had been so outstanding and who had never pretended to have a good opinion of her father-in-law, was sad. As for the rest of us, we were quite desolate.

I was only just beginning to be aware of change and now I found it everywhere.

In due course the will was read. I was not present at that ceremony, but I heard about it later.

The servants were pleased. They had all received their legacies. Everything had been taken care of, I was told, which one would expect of Uncle Peter. Aunt Amaryllis was well provided for; Helena, and Martin, Peterkin and Frances all had their portions. He had a great fortune to leave but the larger part of it was in his business which meant the notorious clubs; and these he had left to his grandson, Benedict Lansdon.

They were whispering about it and I wondered what differences this would mean.

I was soon to discover. The relationship between my mother and her husband had undergone a slight change. She was no longer idyllically happy. In fact there was a certain uneasiness about her.

I had seen them in the garden together. Instead of laughing and now and then touching hands, they walked with a slight distance between each other, yet in earnest conversation … frowning … emphatic … in fact one might say arguing.

It dawned on me that it had something to do with this new inheritance from Uncle Peter.

I wished my mother would talk to me about it. But of course she did not. It was one thing to be considered mature enough to read Jane Eyre, but to be involved in discussion of this delicate affair was quite different.

My mother was very worried.

I did overhear her discussing it with Frances. Frances was one of those rather uncomfortable people who are kind and considerate when dealing with the masses and less so with individuals. She was of sterling character; she had devoted her life to good works; she had said she accepted money from Uncle Peter with gratitude for she did not care how that money had been come by as long as it came her way and she could use it to the good of her Mission. But she had always been more critical of Uncle Peter than any other member of the family. She had accepted him for what he was and was like Elizabeth of England, gratefully receiving plunder which her pirate-heroes brought her and pouring it into the treasury for the good of her country.

This was logical reasoning of course and one would never expect anything else from Frances.

She said: “Benedict should sell off the clubs. They’d bring him a fortune. Surely he doesn’t mean to continue with them?”

“He feels it is what Uncle Peter wanted him to do,” said my mother. “It was for that reason he left them to him.”

“Nonsense. Peter would expect him to do what was best for himself … as he always did.”

“Nevertheless …”

“He fancies himself in the role, I daresay. Well, my father-in-law sailed very near the wind, sometimes … and that’s no way for a politician to go.”

“It’s what I tell Benedict.”

“And he thinks he can go on reaping rewards from the underworld and increasing his riches. There is no doubt that money is a great asset in a political career.”

“It frightens me, Frances.”

“Well, like grandfather like grandson. There is no doubting Benedict is a chip off the old block.”

“Benedict is wonderful.”

A brief silence while Frances was no doubt implying her disagreement with that statement.

“Well,” she said at length, “those clubs nearly finished my father-in-law, remember.”

“I know. That’s why …”

“Some men are like that. Offer them a challenge and they’ve got to take it. It’s something to do with their masculine arrogance. They think nothing on Earth can beat them and they have to prove it.”

“But it could ruin him …”

“Well, his grandfather came sailing through, honored and sung to his grave. Men like that don’t think they are living if there is not a bit of danger around them for them to overcome. Don’t worry, Angel. It’s bad for you in your condition. Take care of yourself and let Benedict fend for himself. His kind always come through … and I daresay he knows what he’s doing.”

So that was it. He was going to continue in Uncle Peter’s business. It was dangerous, but then, as Frances had said, that was how men like Benedict and Uncle Peter lived.

Aunt Amaryllis had aged considerably. She was listless and had lost those youthful looks which had been characteristic of her. She caught a chill and could not shake it off. It seemed that now Uncle Peter was dead she could find no purpose in living.

My grandparents came to London. They were concerned about my mother.

I heard them talking together. “She doesn’t look at all well,” said my grandmother. “Quite different from when we saw her last.”

“Well, it’s getting near the time, I suppose,” replied my grandfather.

“No … it’s more than that.”

I was worried.

“Granny,” I said, “is my mother all right?”

She hesitated just a fraction of a second too long. “Oh yes,” she said at length. “She’ll be all right.” But she did speak without conviction. “I was wondering …” she went on, and paused.

“Wondering what?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, leaving it at that.

Later I realized what she had in mind. She and my grandfather wanted my mother to go back with them to Cornwall and have the child there. I did not think she would agree to that for it would mean leaving Benedict. But then … it was not quite the same between them as it had been. This inheritance had come between them. She did not like it and he apparently did. I knew she was trying to persuade him to get out of the business and he was strongly resisting.

My grandfather had long conversations with him and my grandmother talked a little to me.

“I think it would be a good idea if you and your mother came back to Cornwall with us. We ought to go soon while your mother can travel. It could be a little difficult in a few weeks’ time.”

“She won’t want to go. He couldn’t go with her.”

“You mean your stepfather. No, of course he couldn’t. But he could come down for the occasional week-end. It is not so very far and he is used to travelling about.”

“Oh, Granny, I hope she agrees.”

My grandmother squeezed my hand. “We must try to persuade her. You see, it was different before Uncle Peter died. Everything has changed here. We always thought Aunt Amaryllis would look after her in London but she, poor soul, is hardly in a condition to do so. I know your stepfather would make sure that she had the best attention, but somehow I think people want those nearest and dearest to them at such a time. If she were with us you could be there too.”

“Yes,” I said. “Oh yes.”

I spoke to my mother about it.

“Grandmother wants you to go to Cornwall.”

“She is fussing over me.”

“Well, you are her daughter.”

She smiled at me. “Cornwall,” she said. “Sometimes I think of it, Becca. I feel very tired now and then. I do feel as though I want my mother. Isn’t that childish of me?”

I reached for her hand. “I think people do want their mothers at certain times.”

“I believe you are right. I should always be there if you wanted me. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if anything was worrying you.”

I hesitated and she did not pursue the matter. I was aware then that she knew how deeply I resented my stepfather. Perhaps it seemed to her nothing out of the ordinary; it must have happened thousands of times when a mother remarried.

I wished she would tell me how deep was this rift between herself and her husband. Sometimes I thought it did not exist at all and that she was so much in love with him that he might do anything he pleased without changing that love. And what did he feel? How could I know? I was too young and inexperienced to understand these situations.

There were long discussions about the advisability of my mother’s going to Cornwall; and I sensed that she was wavering.

She talked to me more openly. “You would like to go, wouldn’t you, Becca?”

I admitted that I would.

“Poor Becca. You haven’t been very happy lately, have you? You have felt it hasn’t been quite the same with us. First I go away on a honeymoon … and we are apart as we never have been before … and then I am caught up in all this political work.”

“It had to be,” I said.

She nodded. “But you haven’t liked it. I know how you love Granny and your grandfather. I know how you feel about your father. You put him on a pedestal. It doesn’t do to put people on pedestals, Becca.”

What did she mean? Had she discovered that her idol Benedict had feet of clay? She must have done so. He had inherited Uncle Peter’s shady business connections and would not give them up although she begged him to.

What a difference Uncle Peter’s death had made to us all. Aunt Amaryllis no longer provided that rest house in London; no longer did we have the benefit of his advice; and his death had caused a rift between my mother and her new husband.

She went on: “I am not much use … politically … now and I shall not be for some time. I had to cancel an engagement the other day because I suddenly felt quite unable to carry it out. I think it would be better for everyone if I retired from the scene for a while … and if I went to Cornwall I should be less of a burden than if I were here.”

“And my grandparents would be delighted.”

“Yes, bless them. I shan’t mind being a bother to them.”

“A bother! You would be the reason for rejoicing.”

I skipped round the room and she laughed at me.

“When do we leave?” I asked.

Even then I was scared that he might raise some objection. It was clear that he did not like the idea. He was very tender and loving towards her and I thought I saw her wavering again.

My grandparents had a long talk with him. My grandmother was a most forceful lady. She was the one to look after her daughter in such circumstances, she said, and she knew exactly what was best for her. It would be simple. We should travel to Cornwall with her; the nursery there would be made ready. Dr. Wilmingham was a friend of the family. He had brought Angelet herself into the world. The very best of midwives lived nearby. She should be engaged at once. He must realize that Aunt Amaryllis was no longer able to help and Uncle Peter was not there in case of emergency. He, Benedict, could come down whenever he had the time. There would be no need to make arrangements. All he had to do was arrive. It was true that Cornwall was not exactly close to London but the train was convenient. At weekends he would be more free than during the week … and he could come at any time.

At length he saw the wisdom of this and I and my mother made preparations to leave for Cornwall.

I was happier than I had been for a long time. It was as it had been before the marriage. I think I must have showed it.

He stood on the platform, waving us farewell. He looked so desolate that not until we began to glide out of the station was I able to cast off my fears that she might change her mind.

She was sad at the parting and I was aware once more of the great attraction between them.

I took her hand and clung to it. She kissed mine and said: “The time will soon pass.”

“I daresay that Benedict will be down before long,” comforted my grandmother.

I grew happier as we sped along and crossed the Tamar. One of the grooms was waiting for us and soon we were rattling along through those winding lanes and there was Cador—a sight which always filled me with emotion but never more than at this time when a kindly fate had given me back my mother … if only temporarily.

I vowed that I would make the most of the weeks during which I should have her to myself. I thought of the baby as Our Baby. We should look after it together.

One has to have been unhappy to appreciate real happiness; and on that journey I believed I had never in the whole of my life been happier than I was then.

What a joy it was to settle. It was like coming home. My mother’s spirits revived. Naturally she loved Cador, for it had been her home when she was a child and she and my grandparents were devoted to each other. If anything could make her stop grieving for the loss of Benedict’s company it was this.

It was the beginning of April when we arrived and the countryside was especially beautiful. Spring came a little earlier in Cornwall than it did in London. One could feel it in the air. I could smell the sea and listened contentedly to the gentle rising and falling of the waves. How pleasant it was! My grandparents shared my contentment. They had their beloved daughter back home with them.

The first thing my grandmother did was summon Mrs. Polhenny. She came at once. I thought she looked a little older than when I had last seen her, but if anything even more self-righteous.

She was delighted at the prospect of a new baby.

“ ’Twill be a marvelous thing to have a little one up at Cador, Mrs. Hanson,” she said. “Why, it seems only yesterday that Miss Angelet arrived.”

“Yes, my daughter’s child will have her old nursery. It is wonderful for us to have her here. I told them in London, Mrs. Polhenny, that they couldn’t find a better midwife than you.”

“ ’Twas kind of ’ee, Mrs. Hanson. It’s doing God’s work … bringing little children into the world. That’s how I see it.”

My grandmother and I exchanged amused glances.

“Well, I’d like to have a look at Miss Angelet … when it’s convenient like.”

“Certainly,” said my grandmother. “I’ll take you up to her room.”

My grandmother disappeared with her and shortly after joined me.

“Still singing the Lord’s song in a strange land,” commented my grandmother.

“It must be gratifying to be so sure you are so good,” I said. “I wonder how many share her opinion?”

“Oh, Mrs. Polhenny doesn’t care about the opinions of others. I don’t think I ever knew a more self-satisfied person.”

“I wonder what her name is … her Christian name?”

“I have heard it. Something quite unsuitable. Violet, I think. Anything less like a violet, I cannot imagine.”

“There hasn’t been a Saint Violet, has there?”

“I don’t think so, but there will be now … at least in Mrs. Polhenny’s reckoning. Still, she is a very good midwife and we’ll have to put up with her little foibles on that account.”

Mrs. Polhenny was a little serious when she joined us.

My grandmother said sharply: “All is well, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes.” She looked at me. My grandmother nodded. I knew what that meant. Mrs. Polhenny had something to say which was not for my ears.

I left the room but I did not go away. This was my mother and I intended to know what was happening for Mrs. Polhenny’s look had alarmed me.

So, though I went outside, I left the door a little ajar and stood there listening.

“She seems exhausted, Mrs. Hanson.”

“She’s just had a long train journey from London.”

“H’m,” said Mrs. Polhenny. “Ought to have come earlier. I’d like her to take a good rest.”

“She’ll have that here. There’s nothing wrong, is there, Mrs. Polhenny?”

“No … no …” She spoke rather hesitantly. Then she went on: “I think we are a week or more farther on than we thought.”

“Oh, do you?”

“I think so. Anyway, she’s here now. I’m glad she didn’t leave it any longer to travel. We’ll take good care of her, never fear. She’s in the right hands now. With the good Lord’s help we’ll see she’s all right.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Polhenny, of course.”

As soon as Mrs. Polhenny had gone I sought out my grandmother.

“She’s all right, isn’t she?” I asked.

“Oh yes. Mrs. Polhenny wants her to rest more. Naturally she’s rather tired after the journey. She’s going to be all right now she’s here.”

“I thought Mrs. Polhenny sounded rather worried.”

“No … not really. She wants to think we can’t do without her. That’s just her way.”

We laughed together; then we went up to my mother.

“The holy Mrs. Polhenny thinks you should rest more,” said my grandmother.

My mother lay back on the pillows and laughed. “I’m willing,” she said. “I feel so tired.”

My grandmother went over and kissed her.

“I’m so happy you came home,” she said.

We were all seated at the dining table. My mother, considerably refreshed in a long rose-colored teagown, looked beautiful. Miss Brown was having something in her room. Meals were always a little difficult. My grandparents did not like her to eat alone and she certainly could not join the servants in the kitchen. It was different at Manorleigh or in the house in London. There Miss Brown and I often ate together, but here there was a more intimate family life. Miss Brown would often plead work to prepare and would eat in her room. I think she preferred it sometimes. In any case she did on that night.

So it was just my grandparents, my mother and myself.

“I daresay Jack and Marian will be over to see you tomorrow,” my grandmother was saying. “They are so pleased you are here. Marian will be a great help … such a practical girl. And then, of course, there’s Mrs. Polhenny … she’ll be over.” She looked at me. “A pity Pedrek’s not here. Poor boy! School has put an end to his frequent visits. He’s growing up fast.”

“Tell us what has been happening here,” said my mother.

“Oh, nothing much. Life goes on in the same old way in remote places, you know.”

“Well, you did have the French refugees here. Are they still at High Tor?”

“No. They bought the place though. They probably wish they hadn’t now. They’ve got another place near Chislehurst. They pride themselves on their aristocratic connections.”

“Oh yes,” said my mother. “The Emperor and Empress went there, didn’t they?”

“Yes. Exiles. I believe they have a fine house there. When the Emperor died, the Bourdons thought they ought to go and comfort the Empress. I’ve no doubt she keeps a little court there.”

“I heard of his death,” said my mother. “In January … I think.”

My grandmother nodded.

“And what about Mrs. Polhenny’s daughter? “I asked.

“Oh, Leah is staying with an aunt now. St. Ives way, I think.”

“An aunt! Who’s that? Mrs. Polhenny’s sister?”

“I should think so.”

“I didn’t know she had any relations,” I said. “I thought she just descended from Heaven to lead the unrighteous back to the fold.”

We all laughed and my grandfather said: “I must say it seems strange to think of her as a child with a sister … and growing up like an ordinary little girl.”

“It may be that she was quite normal then,” said my mother, “and suddenly she was made aware of her mission … like St. Paul on the road to Damascus.”

“I am sure Mrs. Polhenny would appreciate the comparison,” put in my grandmother.

“Did Leah do the tapestries at High Tor?” I asked.

“Yes. She was there for some weeks … well, all of a month, I believe. It changed her. I saw her once or twice. She looked so well … and happy. Poor girl, it must have been wonderful to get away from her mother.”

“Why do good people so often make others uncomfortable?” I asked.

“I doubt whether they are as good as they think they are,” replied my grandmother, “and the rest of us are not as bad as they think we are.”

“The thing is not to let such people bother you,” added my grandfather.

“It’s not easy if you happen to be the daughter of one,” retorted my mother and added: “Poor Leah!”

“Well, I’m glad she enjoyed her spell at High Tor,” I said. “And now she’s gone to this aunt. It looks as though she has developed a taste for adventure.”

“I’m surprised that Mrs. Polhenny allowed it,” said my mother.

“Well, she was at length persuaded to let her go, though she stood out against it at first.”

“Leah is growing up now,” said my mother. “Perhaps she is developing a will of her own as well as a taste for adventure.”

We went on chattering about life in the Poldoreys, my mother asking after all the people whom she had known as a child.

It was wonderful to be together like this. It was my happiest day since I had heard she was going to marry Benedict Lansdon.

The days sped by. My mother protested when she had to take her enforced rests. Dr. Wilmingham called. He was pleased with her condition. He stayed to luncheon for he had been a friend for many years. He shared my grandmother’s opinion of Mrs. Polhenny. “She can be irritating at times,” he said, “but she is one of the best at her job. A really dedicated midwife. We could do with more like her.”

I used to go for little walks with my mother. “Fresh air and exercise is good,” Dr. Wilmingham said, “as long as it is not overdone.”

We walked in the gardens but my mother liked to go farther afield. She was very fond of the walk to Branok Pool. The place had a strange fascination for her. She told me the story of how it had been dragged when she thought I had strayed into it so many times that I knew every word by heart.

Such places change little. It must have been exactly like that all those years ago with the willows trailing in the water and the marshy ground round the brink. My mother liked to sit on one of the protruding boulders and she would watch the water as though her thoughts were far away.

Now and then we would catch a glimpse of Jenny Stubbs, sometimes singing in that strange voice of hers which had an uncanny otherworldliness about it, and sounded very eerie by the pool.

She would call: “Good day to ’ee, Miss Angel … Miss Rebecca.”

My mother answered her in a specially gentle voice. Jenny seemed to have a fondness for her. She hardly noticed me which was strange as I was the one she had kidnapped and she had believed was her own.

“Good day, Jenny. A lovely day, isn’t it?”

Sometimes Jenny would pause and nod her head. She would look at my mother wonderingly. It was obvious that she was pregnant now.

Once Jenny said: “I see you be expecting, Miss Angel.”

“Yes, Jenny.”

Jenny lifted her shoulders and giggled. She pointed to herself. “Me too, Miss Angel. Little girl I be having …”

“Yes, Jenny,” said my mother.

Jenny smiled and walked back to her cottage, singing as she went.

Benedict came down several times. We never knew when he was coming. He would suddenly appear, to cast a cloud over my days. Then it seemed that I lost her. He was the sort of man who seemed to fill a room with his presence. At the dinner table he was the center of conversation. It was all about what was happening in the Party, when the next election could be expected. It was almost as though Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli joined us at the dinner table.

He and my mother were constantly together during his stay. There was no place for me.

I heard him say to her once: “It seems so long. I wish I had never let you go so far away from me.”

She laughed softly and happily and replied: “It won’t be long now, darling. Then I’ll be home … with the baby. It will be wonderful.”

I felt then that I must enjoy every moment. This happiness could not last.

May had come. In another month the baby would arrive. Mrs. Polhenny was now sure that it would be earlier than we had at first thought.

“I shan’t be able to walk so far soon,” said my mother.

“Perhaps you should not walk so far now,” I replied.

“I want to see the pool once more.”

“I don’t think those boulders are very comfortable for you to sit on.”

“Nothing is comfortable just now, Becca.”

“And they might be a little damp.”

“In this weather? There’s been no rain for weeks. Come on.”

“Well, if you get tired we shall turn back.”

“I can get there. I want to.”

“Why does the place fascinate you so much? It’s gloomy and it always seems to me that there is something evil about it.”

“Perhaps that’s why.”

“They ought to put railings round it to prevent accidents,” I said.

“That would change the place completely.”

“Well, perhaps that would be a good thing.”

She shook her head.

We sat there on the boulders. There was a stillness in the air.

At length she said: “Becca, I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“You are very dear to me. I shall never forget the day you were born.”

“In those goldfields …”

“You made a difference to my life … you always have. You mustn’t ever think that I don’t love you as much as I did. You won’t mind about the new baby, will you?”

“Mind? I already love the baby.”

“I want you to love it … dearly. It’s very important to me. It’s suddenly come to me … as though I’m seeing ahead. There is something about this place …”

“Yes,” I agreed. “There is something about it. You think that because I’m jealous of … him … I might be of the baby.”

“I don’t love you any less because I love others.”

“I know.”

“So never think it.”

I shook my head. I was too moved for words.

She took my hand and laid it against her body. “You are young,” she said. “People would say you should not know of such things … but I have never thought of you as young. You are my own … part of me. That is why we have been so close together always … until … well, so you thought. Stop thinking that, Becca. He wants you to care for him as much as I do. He is hurt because he thinks you resent him. Can you feel the movement? That is the child, Becca … our child … yours, mine and his. Promise me that you will always love it … care for it … look after it …”

“Of course I will. It will be my sister … or my brother. Of course I’ll love it. I promise.”

She put my hand to her lips and kissed it.

“Thank you, my darling child. You have made me very happy.”

For a while we sat looking at the pool. Then she rose suddenly and took my hand.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Dearest child, always remember …”

I was with her all the time. It seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders. When the child was born and we went back, he would be there. I was going to try to stop hating him. I could see now that I had been to blame.

He wanted me to be part of the family. He did not want to shut me out. I had shut myself out.

I was going to be different when the child was born.

My mother had stopped going out. Mrs. Polhenny came every day. She was ready, she said. “At the first sign, I’ll be here.”

Dr. Wilmingham often came to luncheon. My mother would join us, but she was quickly exhausted.

Pedrek came down for a brief stay at Pencarron Manor. He and I would ride together. It was more like the old days, but I never stayed away from Cador for long for I liked to be as much as possible with my mother.

One afternoon Pedrek and I had been riding together and as we approached Cador he said goodbye before going back to Polcarron and I turned my horse to go home. The day had been overcast. There would be rain before long. On the way I passed Mrs. Polhenny’s cottage. We had always laughed at its prim appearance—the scrubbed doorstep, the gleaming cobbles, the windows shrouded with heavy curtains at the sides and dazzling white net across them to protect the inmates from seeing sin outside the house, we always said.

Mrs. Polhenny was, I guessed, at the Peggotys’ in West Poldorey. I had heard that she had been called there that morning to attend Mrs. Peggoty.

As I glanced up at the windows I saw a shape, so Mrs. Polhenny was at home. That would mean the Peggoty child was born. The shadow was there for a moment and then it had gone.

I hesitated. My grandmother had been a little anxious about Mrs. Peggoty for it was her first child and she was forty years old, which was old to have children. It would be good to know that the child was safely born. So I slipped off my horse and tethered it to a bush. Then I went and knocked at the door.

I stood there smiling to myself, wondering what Mrs. Polhenny would think if I asked if the baby had arrived. I had heard through one of the maids that she thought I was a “forward piece” and that it wasn’t right for children to know what I knew and she could not imagine what them up at Cador was thinking about to allow it.

I must say I felt rather a mischievous delight in shocking her.

I waited. There was no answer. The house seemed silent. Yet I was certain I had seen her at the window … at least it must be her for Leah was away with the aunt in St. Ives.

I waited for ten minutes. Then I mounted my horse and rode away. I was puzzled. I had been sure someone was in the house.

I forgot about the incident until the next morning when my grandmother announced that Mrs. Peggoty had a fine boy.

“He was born at three o’clock this morning, Mrs. Polhenny tells me. She says she was there for all those hours and is really worn out.”

So she had not been there, in the house. How odd! I must have imagined the shape at the window. But I knew I had not. It was rather mysterious.

June came. Mrs. Polhenny was, as she said, “at the ready.” She had become a little preoccupied which worried me a little. I asked myself if she were a little less sure of herself.

One morning she said to my grandmother: “You could have knocked me down with a feather. I’d never have believed it. I just thought there was something about her … the trained eye, you know. Then I said to her, ‘Jenny,’ I said, ‘I’d like to take a look at you.’ She was pleased enough to let me and when I examined her … well, I tell you, I couldn’t believe it …”

I listened to this. I was constantly on the alert. I had a feeling that all was not going as it should with my mother and although they told me a little I guessed there was a great deal which was held back. I was determined to find out. I had to know. So I listened quite shamelessly to everything I could in the hope of finding out the true state, of affairs concerning my mother.

That was how I learned that Jenny Stubbs was in fact expecting a child. It was a nine days’ wonder in the Poldoreys. How could it have come about? Everyone was thinking back to harvest time. September or October … to June. It was remembered that Peggotys had had labor in to help with the harvest. Last time with Jenny people guessed the father had been one of the itinerant workers. And Jenny, of course, half dazed as she was, wanted so much to have a child that it had been one of her fantasies to believe she was to have one. According to wiseacres like Mrs. Polhenny, this sort of dreaming made conception more likely.

The news was about and it reached my alert ears. Jenny Stubbs, who had dreamed for years of having a baby, was about to have one, according to Mrs. Polhenny, whose word could not be doubted in such matters.

She had taken on the task of looking after the girl. She wanted no help, no payment. She had presumably had a private conversation with God who had led her to discover that Jenny was really about to give birth and she knew it was her duty to look after the girl.

My mother was pleased when she heard the news.

“I know how wonderful it is to bring a child into the world,” she said. “It’s the most exciting adventure.”

My grandmother commented that when Jenny had previously had her own child she had been so happy that she had improved in every way. This could be the making of a new life for her. She might be quite normal again.

“Well,” said Mrs. Polhenny, “I shall have my hands full. Two babies about to appear … and at the same time. God will give me strength.”

“How gratifying it must be for Mrs. Polhenny to feel that God is working with her … a sort of auxiliary midwife, on this occasion it seems,” said my grandmother.

My mother laughed. “You are quite irreverent, Mama,” she said.

I treasured those moments with her. I should never forget them.

The day came. There was expectation in the house. Soon the ordeal would be over. My mother would be exultant and there would be a new member of the family.

Mrs. Polhenny had arrived. She said: “I delivered Jenny Stubbs’ baby last night … a lovely little girl. Jenny’s beside herself with glee.”

“Who is looking after her?” asked my grandmother.

“I’ve taken her over to my place … I did just before the birth was about to take place. I thought it best as I had Mrs. Lansdon’s coming. Leah’s home. She’s helping.”

“That’s good of you, Mrs. Polhenny.”

Mrs. Polhenny preened herself and looked more virtuous than ever.

“Well … she’s through. Now it’s Mrs. Lansdon’s turn.”

Later my grandmother said to me: “Her heart’s in the right place in spite of all that self-congratulation. It was good of her to take Jenny in.”

All seemed normal at the time. Jenny’s delivery had been an easy matter. We thought my mother’s would be the same.

Mrs. Polhenny arrived at eleven in the morning and by mid-afternoon we knew that all was not well. Dr. Wilmingham was sent for.

Benedict arrived. No one had met him at the station, but we were not surprised to see him for we guessed he would come to Cador for the birth. He wanted to go to my mother at once, but that was not allowed.

“But she will know that you are here,” said my grandmother, “and that should comfort her.”

Then began one of the most terrible periods of my life. I cannot remember it clearly. I have tried to shut it out of my mind because it brings so much anguish to recall it. I have succeeded to some extent, for now it is just like a blurred memory.

I do recall vividly though how terrible the waiting was, so I sat with my grandparents … and him. He could not sit still and kept pacing about the room, firing questions at us. How had she seemed? Why had he not been sent for earlier? Something ought to have been done.

My grandfather said: “For God’s sake, be calm, Benedict. She’ll be all right. She has the best attention.”

He said angrily: “She should have stayed in London.”

“Who knows?” said my grandmother. “We thought it was for the best.”

“Some petty country doctor! An old woman …”

I felt angry with him. He was blaming my grandparents. But I knew, as they did, that it was his excessive anxiety which made him as he was, and that it was an outlet for his fears and misery to blame someone.

The hours dragged on. I felt the clocks had all stopped. Waiting … waiting … and with every passing moment growing more afraid.

I cannot dwell on it. Cold fear had taken possession of me. And I knew it was an emotion I shared with them all. I was aware of my grandmother beside me. We looked at each other and neither of us attempted to hide what we felt. She took my hand and gripped it hard.

Then the doctor came. Mrs. Polhenny was with him. They did not have to speak. We knew. And the greatest desolation I had ever felt swept over me.