Changeling

Back in Manorleigh we were plunged into a whirl of activity. Benedict was rarely at home; he went travelling round the constituency which covered a large area, speaking at meetings, attending conferences and on certain days attending what was called “the surgery” which was conducted in a small room leading from the hall where he listened to complaints and suggestions from his constituents.

We all seemed to be caught up in parliamentary duties.

When he was not at home people sometimes called with problems and Celeste was expected to listen to their accounts and answer sympathetically, explaining the unavoidable absence of her husband before whom the matter would be put on his return.

On one occasion, when Benedict was away for a few days, one of the farmers called. He was concerned about a right of way which people were using discriminatingly and damaging his corn.

Celeste was not at home and I happened to be there so I took him into the little room called the surgery and let him talk to me.

Having been brought up at Cador, I did understand what he was talking about.

“I remember something very like it in Cornwall,” I told him. “The farmer put up a fence leaving just a narrow path. His workmen were able to do it very quickly and his crops were safe.”

“I’ve been thinking of it, but I didn’t want to go to the expense.”

“It’s worth it,” I assured him. “You see, there is this law about rights of way.”

“You have a point,” he said. “I was wondering if there was anything Mr. Lansdon could do about it.”

“The law is the law, and unless it’s changed it stands.”

“Well, thank you for your attention. You’re his stepdaughter, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s better talking to you than to the foreign lady.”

“You mean Mrs. Lansdon.”

“She doesn’t know what you’re talking about half the time. It’s different with you. You’ve got good sense.”

“It is on account of my being brought up on my grandparents’ estate.”

“That’s what I say. You know what you’re talking about. It’s a pleasure to talk to you.”

A few days later Benedict returned home. He met the farmer who told him that he had called at the house and what a bright and intelligent young lady his stepdaughter was.

I always avoided Benedict when I could and the relationship between us was as uneasy as it had ever been. Belinda was the same with him. It was his fault. He could not bear to look at her. Oddly enough, he was happier in Lucie’s company with whose existence he need not concern himself. She did not arouse any sad memories in him. Lucie was attractive and well mannered; she caused him no annoyance, whereas Belinda was the one left to him as a substitute for Angelet—and he could not forgive her for that. It was unfair. Belinda was not an easy child to handle but she was blameless on that score.

“I understand you took surgery the other day,” he said to me.

“Oh, there was no one else about.”

“They shouldn’t come when I am not here. There is a special day for it.”

“The farmer must have forgotten that.”

“You impressed him.”

“Oh … it was about a right of way … similar to a case we had in Cornwall.”

“He said it was good to talk to someone sensible who knew something about things.”

“Oh … I’m flattered.”

“Thank you, Rebecca.”

I said: “Well, I happened to be around and he caught me.”

My resentment was as great as ever. I did not want him to think I was going out of my way to help him.

I left him quickly. I hoped the farmer had not mentioned that he preferred to talk to me rather than to Celeste.

I was growing sorry for Celeste. The marriage was a great mistake. I could see that and it was his fault mostly.

He did not care. He had a wife which was what was expected of him. She was a good hostess and so elegant that her appearance carried her through. That was what he had needed. Did he ever think that she would not be content to be a puppet set up to further his ambitions? Did he not think she might want a loving husband? I knew enough to see that she craved his affection; I believed she was a passionate woman who needed to be loved. It was cruel to have married her if he intended to remain aloof … mourning one who was lost to him for ever.

There was something very wrong in this house. There was a brooding feeling of tragedy. Perhaps I was fanciful. It might be because I knew something of the deep passion which had existed between him and my mother—a feeling of such intensity that it could not die because one of them had. What happened in that silent room behind the locked door? Her brushes were on the table … her clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Could she come back to him there? I had thought she came to me once. Perhaps when a person is deeply loved that person becomes part of the one left behind; there is a bond which even death cannot break.