Philippa Carr: The Changeling

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

“What about Mr. and Mrs. Emery …?”

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

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

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

“Oh? What did they say?”

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

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

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

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

It was the first lie I remembered telling her.

He had indeed come between us.

My grandparents arrived in London.

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

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

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

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

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

She soon noticed that all was not well with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can only have one father.”

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

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

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

“I liked it as it was.”

“Your mother is very happy,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

“As though there was something odd about it.”

“There was something odd about it.”

“Who said so?”

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

“Tell me what you heard,” she urged.

I remained silent.

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

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

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

“But she did die.”

“Yes.”

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

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

“I do know him.”

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

“I? Spoil it?”

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

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

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

“Pedrek’s going away to school.”

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

“He’s very rich, this er …”

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

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

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

“I … I don’t know what to call him.”

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

She composed her features and looked very serious.

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

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

She must have noticed the stubborn line of my mouth.

“Well, Uncle Benedict.”

“He’s not my uncle.”

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

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

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

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