The changeling

I remember in flashes-flashes of sheer desperation and the most absolute wretchedness I have ever known. I can see us standing round her bed. How different she had been in life! She looked beautiful; there was a serenity in her face; she looked so white, so young-and so apart from us. I could not grasp the fact that I had lost her forever. We hardly looked at the baby. I don’t think we could bear to do so. But for it, this would not have happened.

My grandparents were heartbroken. They had loved her so dearly. They were as stunned as I was. As for Benedict, I had rarely seen such misery as I saw in his face. In it there was a baffled anger against the world. I knew in that moment how deeply he had loved her. I think we all felt the need to get away, to be alone with our grief.

The doctor and Mrs. Polhenny concerned themselves with the child. I sensed, however, that they did not expect her to live. Feeding was a problem, but Mrs. Polhenny understood all about that. We were too stunned by our grief to be able to tear ourselves away from it and I do not know what we should have done without Mrs. Polhenny. My grandmother said afterwards that we should always be grateful to her. She made little fuss but just continued caring for the child while we nursed our sorrow. Later, arrangements would have to be made. I supposed the child would stay at Cador. I knew that when my grandmother recovered a little from this terrible blow it was what she would want... as I should. But just at first I could not bear to think of her and, miraculously it seemed to us afterwards, Mrs. Polhenny seemed to understand. She ceased to be the Lord’s avenging angel and became a practical nurse, giving herself to the care of the living while the rest of us mourned the dead.

We struggled through the remainder of that day and night, and in the morning, after I rose from my bed in which I had slept little, I realized that I had to go on with my life. My mother was dead and I had to accept that fact. This time I had really lost her.

We all seemed to be walking round in a state of shock, Benedict more than any of us. My grandfather tried to be calm and reasonable; he was trying to look ahead-anything to shut out the misery of the moment. The day for the funeral was decided on. She lay there in her coffin ... she, who had been so alive, so merry, the most important person in my life.

I had my grandparents, of course, and I thanked God for them. And there was the child. She was weak, said Mrs. Polhenny, and she did not want us fussing over her. “Leave her be ... just at first. Leave her to me.”

So we left her to Mrs. Polhenny and I think we were rather glad to do so. The day of the funeral arrived. \ shall never forget it... the coaches, the hearses, the undertakers in their morning dress, the scent of lilies. I was never able to smell them after without recalling that scene.

We stood round the grave; Benedict, my grandparents and I, holding my grandmother’s hand. I watched him as the clods fell on the coffin and I had never seen more abject despair in any face.

And then back to Cador which had become a house of mourning.

It had to change. Nothing lasted forever, I consoled myself. The next day Benedict left. It was as though he could no longer bear to see any of us.

The carriage was at the door to take him to the station and we went down to say goodbye to him. My grandmother tried to console him. She was deeply conscious of his grief.

She said to him: “Leave everything for now, Benedict. We’ll work out something later on ... when we are more settled. Rebecca and the child will stay here with us for the time being.”

I saw the look on his face when she mentioned the child. It was a bitter resentment, bordering on hatred. I knew that he had to blame someone to assuage his unbearable grief. He had to replace it with a stronger emotion. I could see he already resented the child and would always say to himself; But for her Angelet would be here. I understood his feelings, for I too had experienced that bitter resentment and knew how it could take possession of one and warp one’s feelings-for just as he resented the child I had resented him. He was telling himself: But for this child she would be here today, and I was saying: But for you, Benedict Lansdon, I should have my mother as I always had before you came.

It was a relief when he had gone.

Pedrek’s grandparents, the Pencarrons, now showed more than ever what true and loyal friends they were. Their daughter Morwenna and my mother had had a London season together; Morwenna and her husband had gone to Australia with my parents; Pedrek and I had been born out there. There was a lasting bond between us and we were as one family.

After Benedict left, Mrs. Pencarron said to my grandmother: “I am going to take you, your husband and Rebecca back with me to Pencarron. I want you to stay, if only for a couple of nights.”

“There is the child ...” said my grandmother.