The changeling

There followed a week of intensive action and then the great day dawned. I set out in the carriage with Morwenna and Helena and as was the custom we were inspected by the curious eyes of passersby. It was quite an ordeal. At least we were in the royal drawing room and there was the Queen, a diminutive figure, with an expression of gloom and an air of aloofness which was rather disconcerting. However, the procedure was short lived. One approached, curtsied, kissed the plump bejeweled little hand, and for a fraction of a second looked into that sad old face, then cautiously walked backwards, balancing the three plumes on one’s head and taking the utmost care not to trip over one’s three and a half yards of train. I was inwardly amused by all the preparations which had been necessary to make me ready for those few seconds of confrontation with royalty. However, the purpose was served. I had survived the ordeal and was now an accepted member of London society. I was relieved to take off my feathers-as great a hazard as the train of my dress-and to sit back and say Thank Heaven, that’s over.

Morwenna was as relieved as I was.

“I remember it so well,” she said.

“I too,” added Helena.

“I was in a state of perpetual anxiety throughout the whole business,” admitted Morwenna.

“I knew I’d be a failure.”

“So did I,” added Helena.

“Yet,” I pointed out, “you are both happily married which is the whole purpose of the affair.”

“The whole purpose of the affair,” said Helena, “is to parade the girls so that they can aspire to a grand marriage. Our marriages were grand for us but not to the world. Martin wasn’t known at all when I married him.”

I knew the story of how they had met on the way to Australia with my great-grandparents. Martin had been going out to write a book about convicts. Uncle Peter had helped him when he returned to England and had molded him so that he had become the successful politician he was today.

Morwenna said: “And Justin was not considered a good match. He is just a good husband.”

“To get a good husband is a more successful way of going about it, I should think,” I said.

“You see what a wise woman our little Rebecca has become,” said Helena. “I am going to pray that you find the most successful way.”

We all were pleased that the great ordeal was over but we all knew there could be more to come. There would be the invitations, the gaiety, the splendor and the misgivings of the London season.

My stepfather would be watching me. He after all had borne the cost of the expensive arrangements of getting me launched. There had always been a great deal of entertaining at his London house-and at Manorleigh, of course; but that was political entertaining.

Now the parties would be for his stepdaughter. There would doubtless be a strong political flavor about them, I supposed, because that was the circle in which he moved. But on the face of it the balls would be given for me. What return did he expect? He wanted to see little notices in the paper. “Miss Rebecca Mandeville, stepdaughter of Mr. Benedict Lansdon ... the debutante of the season ...”

“Miss Rebecca Mandeville announces her engagement to the Duke of ... the Marquis of ... It will be remembered that she is the stepdaughter of Mr. Benedict Lansdon ...” Uncle Peter had been like that. His grandson had inherited his talent for advertising himself. My mother used to laugh at Uncle Peter. What had they said of Benedict? “He’s a chip off the old block.” Well, if he expected me to shine in society and walk off with the big matrimonial prize, I feared he might be in for a big disappointment. There was to be a ball for me at the London house. It was the first of the season. Great preparations ensued. Celeste was eager to help in any way she could. She was certainly trying hard to be friendly. She came to my room to help me dress for the ball, bringing her maid, Yvette, with her. My gown was of lavender chiffon. Celeste had chosen it. She had said: “I wish everyone to say ... Who is that beautiful one? Is her gown not charmante? I wanted Benedict to be proud of you.”

“He’ll hardly notice me.”

She lifted her shoulders in a resigned gesture. I thought she was expressing her own disappointment in being unable to please him.

She and Yvette twittered round me while Yvette dressed my hair. I must admit that the final effect was surprising. I looked different. More attractive ... yes ... but older ... more sophisticated. The person who looked back at me in the mirror hardly seemed myself.