The Changeling (59 page)

Sir John nodded. “You can be sure that all that can be done is being done.”

“It is good of you to come and see us,” said Lady Greenham. “There has been too much horror lately. I think you did right to go to Cornwall.”

“My sister wanted me to stay, but in view of this …”

Sir John leaned over and patted my head.

“We always knew you were fond of him,” he said.

“As a matter of fact … we talked together before he went. We were going to announce our engagement on his return.”

They were both smiling at me.

“He’ll come back,” said Sir John, “and then we shall have wedding bells. Alas …”

I knew what he was thinking. It would be so different from what we had all had in mind. My father, one of the architects of the plan for us, would not be there. He had been done to death by an assassin’s hand; and the bridegroom was missing in a foreign country.

I asked myself how much more disaster could strike.

While I was talking to Sir John and Lady Greenham, Gerald Greenham arrived. There was only about a year’s difference in his and Joel’s ages and I knew there was a strong friendship between the two brothers. Gerald was likable and full of vitality, though he lacked that inner gentleness which I found so appealing in Joel.

He talked about his brother’s disappearance. Naturally it was the chief topic of conversation in that house. He was of the opinion that not enough was being done to find out what had happened.

Sir John said that naturally plans of action would not be blazoned from the rooftops and in such cases there was bound to be a certain amount of secrecy.

Gerald stuck to his view. He asked me how I was getting on, remembering suddenly it seemed that I had endured an even greater tragedy for, while they could retain hope, I could have none.

When I rose to go, Sir John suggested that Gerald should take me home, to which Gerald responded with enthusiasm.

When we came out of the house he hailed a cab and, as we jogged along together, he said: “This is a great blow to the parents. They hide it … but I know what it is doing to them.”

“I understand.”

“I get impatient.
I
want to do something.”

“What could you do?”

“That’s the important question. What I can’t endure is sitting at home here waiting for something to happen. I get impatient.”

“Understandably.”

“You must feel the same. I know how you felt about Joel.”

“I do wish he would come back.”

“I’d like to go out there … make a few investigations, in secret … you understand. Not letting on that I was his brother.”

“I suppose the government could achieve more than a private detective.”

“That depends. I’d like to have a good go anyway.”

I glanced sideways at him. He had a very firm jaw; and there was speculation in his eyes.

I liked him very much. He really cared about his brother. When I said good-bye I felt a little better … because of him.

The weeks began to pass. There were letters from Belinda, one for me, one for Celeste. By the time they reached us she was on her way.

I visited Manorleigh briefly, but I felt I wanted to be in London. I no longer looked fearfully out of the window at night. I had done so during the first weeks and been confronted always by the empty street.

I had one or two sessions with the solicitors who talked at great length about the trust and what should be done about that money that was now virtually mine. I could not give my thoughts entirely to such matters; they seemed of little importance when compared with my fears for Joel.

It had been more than a month since his disappearance and a melancholy possibility had occurred to me that I might never see him again.

I visited the Greenhams from time to time. They continued to be hopeful, but I sometimes wondered whether that was a pretense. I saw Gerald once and he was still obsessed by his brother’s disappearance.

Time was going on.

Celeste said that we should bestir ourselves. She looked upon me as her responsibility. She said on one occasion that girls in my position had a season and she was sure it was what my father had been planning for me.

“Though I believe,” she added, “that he wanted to shelve the matter for a while. He was afraid someone would marry you and take you away from him.”

I put my hand over hers and we were both too emotional to speak.

She recovered herself and said, “Well, with all this hanging over us, we couldn’t possibly do it. We’ll have to wait.”

“I don’t need a season, Celeste,” I said. “I should hate it. If … when … Joel comes back, we shall marry … he and I … and seasons are not for married women.”

“He must come back,” said Celeste.

And we looked at each other sadly.

“And,” went on Celeste, “soon there will be Belinda.”

“A season for Belinda,” I murmured. “The two of us together.”

It was surprising how often Belinda cropped up in our conversation.

And then one spring day, the
African Star
sailed into Tilbury with Belinda on it.

Celeste and I went to Tilbury to meet her. I knew her at once. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with something of Leah’s beauty, and an indefinable touch of the exotic which perhaps came from her French ancestors. Her main characteristic was that immense vitality which had always been apparent when she was a child. She sparkled with a love of life. She had not changed and she was very attractive.

We were introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Wilberforce, who seemed rather relieved to hand over their charge. Not that Belinda would regard herself as such. For her they had not been guardians but traveling companions.

She rushed at me in the old exuberant way.

“Lucie … Lucie … the same old Lucie! I should have picked you out anywhere. Oh, it
is
wonderful to see you.”

Celeste regarded her rather shyly.

“Welcome home, Belinda,” she said.

“Well, thank you,” replied Belinda, and kissed her. “I’m so glad to be here.”

Celeste turned to the Wilberforces and thanked them for looking after Belinda.

“Actually,” Belinda informed us, “it was I who looked after them, wasn’t it?” She smiled archly at Mr. Wilberforce who returned the smile indulgently. Already I had had a glimpse of her power to charm. “We had some rough water,” she went on to explain. “Poor Mrs. Wilberforce. She wasn’t the only one. Half the ship was prostrate. Mr. Wilberforce and I were almost the only ones who were not.”

“The Bay,” murmured Mrs. Wilberforce. “Well, we must be getting along, I suppose.”

“You must come and visit us,” said Celeste. “We want to thank you properly.”

“Belinda has our address.”

Good-byes were said and arrangements made for Belinda’s luggage to be collected and brought to the house; then with Belinda seated between Celeste and me, we rode along to the house.

Belinda kept pointing out landmarks that she remembered. She was clearly delighted to be back.

We came into the square. I glanced about quickly, as I always did, at the railings of the gardens and the lamp post, even at this time half-expecting to see the man standing there.

“The old house!” cried Belinda. “I remember it so well. And there’s the house at Manorleigh … Manor Grange. Do you go there often?”

“Yes, now and then.”

“I loved it. All that antiquity and the ghost … the ghosts. You remember the ghosts, Lucie.”

Indeed I remembered. So did Celeste, I saw from her expression. She was remembering Belinda’s playing the ghost of my mother, which had given her such a fright.

I wondered that Belinda, who could not have forgotten the incident, should have had the insensitivity to mention it. I thought then, she hasn’t changed at all.

We alighted from the carriage.

Belinda looked at me and suddenly said, “This must be where it happened.”

I nodded.

“It must have been terrible for you.”

“Please,” I whispered, “not now …”

“No, of course not. This is a homecoming … the return of the prodigal. But I am not that, am I? My departure was all quite natural and seemed so right at the time.”

“Come along in,” I said. “The servants are all agog to see you.”

She smiled, well pleased, and, with Celeste, we went into the house.

Celeste had decided that she should have a room close to mine. Hers also had a balcony which looked down on the street.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” she cried. “I shall be able to look down and see what is going on. And I shall love knowing that you are close, Lucie.”

There were just the three of us for dinner that night. Belinda talked more than Celeste and I did. She told us about the goldfields and what a strange life it was. She spoke sadly of Leah. I do believe she had really loved her mother; and she was affectionate about Tom Marner.

“He was wonderful to us both,” she told us. “And at first it was very exciting. Then I began to get homesick. We weren’t so far from Melbourne. Tom used to take us there and we would stay for a few days. That was the highlight. We entertained now and then in the house we had there. It was quiet by goldfield standards. What about Rebecca? She’d remember it, of course.”

“She will be coming up to London sometime.”

“How is she? She has children, hasn’t she?”

“Two … Alvina and Jake. They are darlings.”

I fancied she felt a little uneasy about Rebecca, as well she might. I supposed Rebecca had forgiven her. I wondered if Pedrek would ever be able to forget. There would almost certainly be a little embarrassment between them when they met.

“Does … my father ever come here?” she asked suddenly.

Celeste looked a little flustered.

Belinda noticed this and went on, “Well, he is my father, isn’t he? He doesn’t deny it, does he? My mother told me all about it—how young and innocent she was, and how it never occurred to her that he would not marry her. Do you think he will want to see me?”

“I … I don’t know,” said Celeste.

“
I
want to see him.”

“Perhaps … one day …” murmured Celeste.

“It was all so dramatic, and it all happened so quickly. One day I was the daughter of the house and the next Leah was my mother and Monsieur Bourdon my father. Then I was whisked away. I often thought how strange it all was and wondered how he and I would get on if ever we met.”

“We shall have to see how things turn out,” said Celeste vaguely.

It was an uncomfortable meal. Belinda had always been outspoken and had never shown any respect for conventional modes of behavior.

I was glad when it was over and I was sure Celeste was, too. She suggested we retire as we must all be tired after the excitement of the day.

I had not been in my room long before there was a tap on the door. I knew at once that it was Belinda.

“A bit stilted, wasn’t it?” she said. “Dear old Celeste! I don’t think she wants me here.”

“She does. You are her niece. You’re related to her as you are not to me.”

“Oh, but you and I were always special, weren’t we? We didn’t need family ties. We were brought up together. Then we swapped families. That never ceases to make me marvel. Tell me about everything. What a lot of deaths! First … I always think of him as our father, for I believed he was mine for so long. Well, he’s dead now. I always hated him and he hated me too. He thought I killed your mother by getting born. And I was not the one after all. It was you.”

“He never held it against me.”

“No. I was the one he hated. He couldn’t believe that his sainted Annora had given birth to such a monster.”

“You were indeed a little monster at times, you know.”

She laughed. “I know. I was a monster by nature. No wonder he was relieved when he found out I wasn’t his.”

I was silent. I knew that was true.

“Then he got his dear little Lucie; and he seemed to be rather pleased about that.”

“He was,” I said defiantly. “We were very good friends.”

“The Wilberforces knew all about the way he died. They brought newspapers with them when they came and I was able to read about those little suppers and everything and how you were with him when it happened. What an awful thing!”

“It was awful.”

“Somebody didn’t like him … besides me.”

“Please don’t be flippant about it, Belinda. I just can’t endure that.”

“Sorry. I’m really sorry, Lucie. But as I was saying … all those deaths. Dear Leah … I couldn’t bear that. Not to have her there anymore. She had always been there. I loved Leah. I loved her for all she went through for me. It was bad enough when Tom died … but Leah …”

“I understand, Belinda. Only it’s hard to talk about it now. It seems too soon.”

“Everything is different now, is it not? Little Lucie … you were always so meek … just asking people to put on you … always the little waif.”

“I thought I was. And you took pains to remind me of it if I were inclined to forget.”

“That was the little monster again. I’m sorry, Lucie. I’m going to be different now.”

“I hope you will be. We have suffered a great shock … Celeste and I. He meant a great deal to us both. We are having to readjust ourselves. Please don’t make trouble.”

“Trouble! My dear Lucie. I am going to help you … to take your minds off it.”

“Our minds are so much on it that it will be very difficult to take them off.”

“Leah used to say that I’d be better in London. I’d meet people. She wanted a good future for me.”

“Of course. She was your mother.”

“I suppose he wanted the same for you.”

“I don’t think he thought about it much. We were very important to each other.”

“He wanted to keep you with him, I expect. The devoted daughter and all that. He wouldn’t want to share you with a husband.”

“I don’t know. But he has gone now …”

“And in a most horrible fashion. Everything that happened to him had to be dramatic. He was, as they say, larger than life, so spectacular things had to happen to him. And his going was the most spectacular of them all.”

“Belinda …”

“All right. I won’t talk of it. You and I, Lucie, are growing up. If all this hadn’t happened, people would be saying it was time we thought about getting married. Has anyone asked you?”