The Black Swan

“Those curtains! And you lying there! You might have been burned to death ... or badly scarred. Oh, Lucie, and there was I, fast asleep all through it!” I wondered whether she was thinking, as I was, of that occasion when she had taken a candle from the Christmas tree and touched my dress ... a dress which Rebecca had given to the poor little cottage child so that she might come to the party.

Did Belinda remember? She must, for her actions had cost Jenny Stubbs her life and was the reason why I had been taken into Cador to be brought up with her. But now I was sure that what was uppermost in her mind was the fact that our journey to London had been delayed.

Phillida said, “How strange that you did not hear the commotion.”

“I was so tired,” replied Belinda. “I was asleep almost as soon as I got into bed.” Phillida looked at her intently. I had a notion that Phillida did not greatly care for Belinda.

Phillida then said that, if I would give her permission, she would have the bed taken away and a new one supplied.

“It just upsets me to look at it,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking of what might have been.”

“You’ve got to stop thinking about that, Phillida.”

“I wish I could. So ... shall I get it taken away? Actually, I wouldn’t want Roland to see it in that state. I know how upset he’d be.”

“Then do it, if you can, while I’m in London.”

“Oh, I will, Lucie. Of course, you’ll be going with Belinda.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“I hope you’ll be all right.”

“All right? Of course. What do you mean?”

“I don’t know... exactly. I’m just fanciful after what happened.”

“Fanciful... about Belinda?”

“Well... there is something about her. She’s a strange person. She’s rather wild.

I have a feeling that one would never really know what she was about.”

“Yes, Belinda is a little... unexpected. But I know her well. We are the best of friends really.”

Phillida nodded but she continued to look a little anxious.

The Return

The next day Belinda and I went up to London.

We went first to Celeste who was delighted to see us.

“Lucie as well,” she said. “This is nice. I do hope you are going to stay a little while.”

“Well, Celeste,” I replied, “I thought I’d go to Roland. He is in London now.”

“She couldn’t do without him,” added Belinda. “She has to come up to be with him.” How could she diverge from the truth unnecessarily? I had come up at her request to see Henry Farrell, and she knew it. Why had she deliberately twisted the truth? “So Roland will be expecting you?” said Celeste.

“No. He doesn’t know I’m coming. It was arranged on the spur of the moment. I thought I’d just come to see you and then go along to him. He’ll be busy during the day and Belinda and I have one or two things to do in London.”

It sounded reasonable enough.

We had luncheon with Celeste and by that time it was three in the afternoon. Belinda was all impatience but I said I would go and see Henry Farrell on the following day, because I wanted to prepare what I would say to him. And first I must see Roland.

Belinda accepted my decision rather ungraciously, but she did not want to offend me for fear I abandoned the entire exercise.

I left her with Celeste and took a cab to Welling Gardens where Roland and Phillida had their pied-à-terre.

It was a street of tall narrow houses. I had been there only once before and then only briefly. Neither Roland nor Phillida had suggested that I should go again and it had not seemed necessary that I should. It was a rented house-a temporary residence-and when they had entertained us it had been in hotels and restaurants. We had always heard the place referred to vaguely as the pied-à-terre.

At number seventy I alighted and paid the cab driver. I mounted the steps to the front door and, looking down, I saw the shadowy figure of a woman in the basement. She would be the wife in the couple who took charge of the domestic arrangements and lived down there. Roland had told me that the man and wife team went with the house to those who rented it.

I knocked on the front door and after a while the woman opened it. She was middle-aged, rather plump with reddish hair.

“I’m Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I said.

The woman stared at me for a few seconds and then smiled rather expansively.

“Oh, come in,” she said. “I’ll tell Mr. Fitzgerald ...”

“Oh, he’s home, is he? I wondered whether he would be at this time. My plan had been to be here and surprise him when he came in.”

Then I saw him. He was coming down the stairs and he paused to stare blankly at me for a moment. Then he said, “Lucie!”

“I’ve surprised you, I know,” I explained. “But I came to London and here I am.”

His surprise turned to warmth.

“Oh... Lucie ...”

He had taken me into his arms. I was aware of the woman watching us, smiling. “Thank you, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, noticing her. “This is my wife. We’d like some tea ... or something.”

He put his arm round me. “Come upstairs. It’s wonderful to see you. I can’t tell you how pleased I am.”

“I thought you would be at your office.”