The changeling

Everyone was certain that Benedict Lansdon was going to win the seat although it had been in the hands of the Tories for over a hundred years. He was working indefatigably in Manorleigh, they said, speaking every night. My mother was often with him. “She’s a natural,” commented Uncle Peter, who had travelled to Manorleigh to attend some of the meetings. “She’s the politician’s ideal wife ... another Helena. Wives are a very important part of a member’s ménage.”

Nothing else seemed to exist for them. I was surprised by my attitude. I was wishing he would not win and reproaching myself for it. It would be such a great disappointment to all the people I loved best-most of all my mother. A little failure would be good for him, I told myself virtuously; but I knew in my heart that I hated him because he had spoilt my contented and peaceful existence when he came to play such a prominent part in my mother’s life.

To the great delight of all the family, he won. I had always known that he would.

He had taken the first step. He was now the Member of Parliament for Manorleigh. There was a great deal of publicity about it, because he had snatched the seat from the Tories who had held it for over a hundred years.

I was able to read about him in the papers. Writers tried to assess the reasons for his victory. He was knowledgeable; he had a ready wit; he was good-tempered with hecklers. They admitted he had fought a good campaign and he appeared to the qualities necessary to make a good Member of Parliament. He was connected with Martin Hume who held cabinet , the Tory administration - albeit on the other side of the T ce. It was a triumph for the Liberals. Mr. Gladstone expressed his satisfaction.

Benedict had been fortunate in having a newcomer to the neighborhood in his opponent, whereas he had fought the seat some time earlier; he had been set for victory then but the scandal attaching to his wife’s death happening at such a critical moment had let in his opponent.

Well, here he was and Manorleigh could be congratulated on electing its new member, one who promised to show energy and enthusiasm if his campaign was anything to go by.

Uncle Peter was delighted. He was tremendously proud of his grandson. There was great rejoicing throughout the family and my mother was particularly excited. “Now,” she said, “we have to settle into that house in Manorleigh. Oh, Becca, won’t that be fun?” Would it? I wondered.

Christmas had passed and spring was approaching. The wedding day grew near. I had tried hard to shake off my foreboding. I had on one or two occasions tried to talk to my mother about Benedict. She was eager enough to talk but did not tell me what I wanted to hear.

Often in the past she had told me about those days she had spent with my father and Pedrek’s parents in the mining town-ship. I had heard so much that I could see it clearly; the mine shaft, the shop where everything was sold, the shacks in which they lived, the celebrations when someone found gold, I could see the eager faces in the light of the fires on which they cooked their steaks; I could almost feel the hungry greed for gold.

I always saw my father as different from the others - the debonair adventurer who had come half way round the world make his fortune. He was always merry, lighthearted, my mother told me; he always believed that luck would come to lm- I could picture him so clearly I glowed with pride; I was desperately sad because I had never had the privilege of knowing him; and there followed his heroic end which fitted into the picture of my ideal. Why hadn’t he lived? Then there would have been no possibility of my mother’s marrying Benedict Lansdon. Desperately I hoped that something would happen to prevent this marriage, but the days passed and the wedding day was fast approaching.

Benedict Lansdon had been fortunate in finding an old manor house on the market. It needed a good deal of restoration but my mother had said she would love to help in doing that. It had been built sometime in the early 1400s and restored in the days of Henry VIII-at least the two lower stories had; the upper one was pure medieval. I should have been greatly interested in it if it had not been his house, for it was quite impressive if one did not compare it with Cador. It was shut in by red brick walls and there was an overgrown garden. I did like the garden. It was a place to lose oneself in. My mother was very excited. She was in a mood to find everything connected with her life wonderful. I wanted to remain aloof, but I could not. I was completely fascinated by Manor Grange, which was the name of the house, and I was drawn into discussions on medieval tiles and linen fold panelling, for the roof was faulty and we had to find the right tiles for repair, which was not easy, as they had to be both ancient and in good condition.