The changeling

There was no doubt that Uncle Peter was delighted by the coming marriage; he beamed his approval. He was certain that Benedict was going to succeed and politics had always fascinated him. He himself had planned such a career and whatever that scandalous thing was in his past, it had put an end to it. But he lived politics through his son-in-law Martin Hume. I had heard it said: “Martin is Peter’s puppet.” I wondered if this was so. I could well believe it. And now Benedict was to w that tradition. But of one thing I was certain: Benedict never be anyone’s puppet. Uncle Peter was very rich. So was Benedict. I had an inkling that they had both come to be wealthy in a rather shady way.

I wished I knew more. What frustration it is to be young when people hide things from you and you can only glean little pieces of information. It is like fitting together a jigsaw puzzle with the most important bits missing. Conversation at the dinner table was all about the wedding and the honeymoon which was to be in Italy. They would not go to France because that was where my mother had had her first honeymoon with my father. She used to tell me about the little hotel in the mountains overlooking the sea, where they had stayed. “I wouldn’t stay away too long,” said Uncle Peter. “You don’t want the people of Manorleigh to think their new M.P. is deserting them.”

“We shall be away a month,” my mother told him, and, seeing Uncle Peter looked a little shocked, she added: “I insisted.”

“So you see,” said Benedict, “I had to agree.”

“I am sure the electorate of Manorleigh would realize that a honeymoon is a rather special occasion,” put in my grandfather.

My mother smiled at Uncle Peter. “You are always saying that the people love romance.

I think they might have been disappointed in us if we had cut it short.”

“Good reasoning perhaps,” conceded Uncle Peter.

When we went to our rooms that night, my grandmother followed me up. ‘I wanted to have a little talk,” she said. “Where shall you be while you are waiting for them to come back?”

I said: “I can stay here.” Is that what you want?”

I hesitated. The tenderness in her voice touched me deeply, and I was horrified to discover that I was near to tears.

_ I ? .. I don’t know,” I said.

I thought you didn’t.” She smiled brightly. “Why don’t you come back with us? Your grandfather and I were talking about coming up in the train and said how nice it would be if you decided to come and stay with us for a while. Miss Brown could come and ... well, you might as well be at Cador as here.”

“Oh ... I’d like that.”

“Then it’s settled. Aunt Amaryllis won’t mind. She’d understand that you might feel a little lonely here, whereas a complete change of scene ... we all know you love Cador ... to say nothing of how we should love to have you.”

“Oh, Granny,” I cried, and flung myself into her arms.

I did weep a little but she pretended not to notice.

“It’s the best time of the year for Cornwall,” she said.

So they were married. My mother looked beautiful in a dress of pale lavender and a hat of the same color with an ostrich feather to shade her face. Benedict looked very distinguished; everyone said what a handsome pair they made. There were many important people there and they all came back to the house where Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis played their accustomed role of host and hostess. Uncle Peter was obviously pleased by the way in which everything had gone. As for myself, my depression had deepened. All my hopes for the miracle which was going to stop the marriage had come to nothing. Heaven had turned from me and my prayers had fallen on deaf ears. My mother, Mrs. Angelet Mandeville, was now Mrs. Benedict Lansdon.

And he was my stepfather.

Everyone was assembled in the drawing room; the cake had been cut, the champagne drunk, the speeches made. It was time for the departure on the honeymoon. My mother had gone to her room to change. As she passed me she said: “Rebecca, come with me. I want to talk.”

Willingly I followed her.

When we were in her bedroom she turned to me, concern showing on her face.

“Oh Becca,” she said, “I wish I hadn’t got to leave you.”

I felt a rush of happiness and, fearing to show my true feelings, I said: “I could hardly expect to go with you on your honeymoon.”

“I’ll miss you.”

*ate thioSeWd’tdSpreiended that, I was content. I had to. I U the harness which I knew was hers Day.

I was with them on our way to Cornwall.

The Waiting Months

My grandmother was right. Spring is undoubtedly the best time in Cornwall. I felt better when I smelt the sea. I stood at the carriage window as we chuffed through red-soiled Devon where the train ran close to the sea for a few miles ... then leaving lush Devon behind and crossing the Tamar into Cornwall which had its own special fey quality to be found nowhere else.