The changeling

Benedict was at home. He had not been told of the reason for our arrival. I said to my grandmother: “There is no need to worry about that. He will not notice whether we are there or not.”

The carriage was waiting for us and in a short time we drew up before the house which had never seemed like a home to me. I felt so miserable. There was nothing I wanted to do so much as to take the next train down to Cornwall. Belinda seemed a little happier as we went into the house. They had been right. It was necessary for her to get away.

There was a great deal to do ... unpacking, which I wanted to do myself ... and getting the children fed and settled in.

I noticed that Belinda ate what was put before her. She seemed very tired and I left Leah to put them to bed.

Celeste was pleased to see me; but even she brought up memories of Jean Pascal, although the horror I had felt in that bedroom at High Tor was sunk in insignificance by my greater tragedy.

I wondered-as people do at such times, about matters which seemed of small importance beside the great tragedy-what would happen to the house. That set me thinking of those happy times when we had talked of living there.

I dined with Benedict and Celeste. The talk was mainly about Cornwall and my grandparents.

Benedict was always interested in Cornwall which made him melancholy for he would be rejoined of my mother. It was in Cornwall they had first known each other when she was a child. He always looked sad and nostalgic when he spoke of it and I was sure Celeste was aware of this. As soon as the meal was over I wanted to escape to my room. I think Celeste would have liked to talk to me but I could not endure this on that night. I kept thinking of Jean-Pascal - after all, he was her brother-and I wanted to put that out of my mind if possible. I was reminded that there would be occasions when he came to this house and I should have to avoid him.

There were so many unpleasant dilemmas ahead of me and I just wanted to be alone to think.

Celeste said: “Of course you are tired. We will talk in the morning,” and I was grateful for that.

As I was making my way upstairs I passed the door of Benedict’s study and as I did so the door opened and he came out.

He said: “Rebecca ... I’d like a word. Do you mind?”

I followed him into the study, and he shut the door.

He looked at me quizzically and said: “Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

I hesitated. “Well, Belinda has not been very well.”

“No, so I gather. And you? You don’t look well yourself.”

“Don’t I?”

“You seem surprised about something.”

“Oh ... I am surprised that you noticed.”

“I do notice.” He smiled. “I want everything to be ... all right for you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“I know I haven’t been very demonstrative, but that doesn’t mean I’m indifferent.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?”

“No. I wish ...” He shrugged his shoulders. “I want you to know that if there is anything ...”

“Anything?”

“Any way in which I could help ...”

“I don’t need help, thanks. I’m all right.”

“Well, don’t forget. Your mother would have wanted us to be friends. She always did.”

I was astonished. He was looking at me almost pleadingly. He went on: “I’m here, you know ... I just want you to realize that if I can be of any use ... well, I’m here.”

For a moment I forgot my misery. What on Earth had happened to the man? Of course, there had been an election in March and Mr. Gladstone, his hero, was now Prime Minister. Perhaps that would mean a post in the Cabinet for him. It must be that which made him feel on good terms with the whole world. He had even noticed me ... and Belinda.

A week passed and the tragedy seemed as close as ever. I brooded for hours when I was alone in my bedroom. I should have stayed in Cornwall. But Belinda had had to get away and how could she have gone without Lucie and me, for Lucie was my responsibility. She had no claims on Benedict. I could not have let her go without me. And yet my heart was back in Cornwall with Pedrek. I wanted to write to him to tell him that whatever he had done made no difference. Anything else would not have been the same. If he had been a thief ... even if he had killed someone ... but to me this was so revolting that I could not bear to think of it.

I had a talk with Celeste who had her own problem to face.

She said: “You are unhappy but you do not want to talk about it.”

I shook my head.

“Is it a love affair?”

I nodded.

“Someone in Cornwall. It must be Pedrek Cartwright. I always thought what a delightful young man he is. Has it gone wrong then?”

“Yes,” I said. “It has gone wrong.”

“My poor Rebecca. And you love him?”

“Yes.”

“It is so sad. Life is cruel, is it not? To love and to be rejected ... that is a terrible thing.”

I was silent thinking of Pedrek. It was I who had rejected him. We had said our love would last forever and at the first ill wind it had blown away.

“At least,” she went on, “you find out in time ... not like . ? ?”

I was drawn away from my own tragedy to hers.