“Dorabella? Seriously, you are not having second thoughts, are you? It is rather late.”

“Oh, no. It’s just that I wish you were coming with me.”

“What! To Venice? A honeymoon à trois! I wonder what Dermot would think about that?”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant afterwards. I wish you were coming to Cornwall.”

“I shall come for a visit.”

“You will, won’t you? Often…”

“And you will come here.”

“Yes, there is that. But…I’d like you to be there all the time.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re a big girl now. You don’t need your alter ego there beside you all the time.”

“That’s just it. I do. I have been feeling this for some time. We are like one person. When you think of all that time before we were born…when most children are alone…we were there…growing together. We’re part of each other. There is something between us, something other people can’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“Of course you do. You are part of it. You were always there. Do you remember that frightful Miss Dobbs at school? She was always trying to separate us. ‘You must stand on your own feet, Dorabella.’ Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“I hated her because she wouldn’t let us sit together.”

“And you could not do your sums.”

“Which you were clever at, of course.”

“You would have been all right if you had tried. Miss Dobbs was right. You should have stood on your own feet.”

“Why should I, when I had yours to stand on? And you know, you liked me to. You were always pleased when I couldn’t do those ghastly old lessons without you. You would click your tongue…just like Miss Dobbs. ‘You are really hopeless, Dorabella.’ I can hear your voice now and see the smile of satisfaction on your face while I copied your sums. You were an old swot. You liked to score over me, you liked it when I couldn’t do without you.”

We were laughing together. It was true. I had always wanted her to lean on me. She might charm them, but I could win admiration with my superior scholarship. At least I had that!

Then we began: “Do you remember…?” And we rocked with laughter. There was so much to remember.

I heard the clock in the tower chime midnight.

I said: “Listen. This is your wedding day.”

“Yes,” she said and held me tightly.

“Fancy you, a married woman!”

“It will be wonderful, won’t it?” She spoke lightly but I fancied she was asking for reassurance.

“I know what’s the matter with you,” I said. “It’s something they call prewedding nerves.”

“Is that what it is?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I…I’m not frightened of Dermot. It’s just that it’s the end of the way it used to be…with us.”

“I shall still be here and you’re not miles away, just in a different part of England. There are trains. I only have to get on one, or you will, and we are together.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. Vee?”

She waited for a while and I said: “What?”

“Promise me this…if I wanted you…suddenly…you’d come. You won’t think that, just because I’m married, there’s any difference between us. You’ll always be with me, won’t you, ‘till death do us part’…?”

I was going to give some flippant answer, saying that that was what she should say tomorrow and she had muddled the occasions, but I sensed the urgency in her, so I repeated, “I’ll be there…whenever you want me…‘until death do us part.’ ”

She kissed me and I released her. She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and stood smiling at me.

“And so to bed,” she said. “Busy day tomorrow.”

I lay for some time after she had gone, thinking about her, and I could not dispel the faint feeling of uneasiness.

Everything went according to plan. Dorabella and Dermot were married; the beautifully decorated church was filled not only with friends and relations but the servants from the house and the people from the village.

Dorabella came up the aisle on my father’s arm and went down it on Dermot’s. Everyone was saying how beautiful and radiantly happy she looked, and that it was a wonderful wedding.

There was merrymaking throughout the day; messages of congratulation; people calling; and the reception in the great hall which was scarcely big enough to accommodate them all.

None of Dermot’s family was present. His father had a bad cold and Matilda Lewyth could not leave him; Gordon knew that we would understand that he could not leave the estate at such a time when most of the staff would be thinking of Christmas and being with their families.

This was commented on by Mrs. Mills in the kitchen and no doubt she thought it was not a good omen, especially as the bridegroom had slept under the same roof as the bride the night before the wedding.

However, no one else seemed to have any qualms. The bride and groom were so obviously in love, and I could detect none of that apprehension I had sensed in Dorabella when she had come into my bed on the previous night.

All would be well, I told myself. I should visit them often. It would be fun. I might meet that interesting man Jowan Jermyn again. That would be amusing.

All would be well.

We drank the champagne. My father made a speech. Dermot responded and it was all according to tradition.

The day after Boxing Day the married pair left for Venice.

Then I realized how lonely I felt without her. She had been right about the bond between us. It was as strong as ever. I had liked her to lean on me. I had truly reveled in her copying my sums.

I knew my life was going to be different without her close by. I felt an emptiness…a deep loneliness.

Dorabella and Dermot had returned from their three weeks in Italy. She had written to say she had had a wonderful time. She wrote often and her letters indicated that she was happy at Tregarland’s.

The weather had been rather severe. We had had snow and my mother caught a cold. She was rarely ill and when she was I had always taken on the task of looking after her. But for this I might have gone to Cornwall for a visit.

My mother said: “Dorabella will probably be better settling in on her own. It is all new to her and she may be hankering after her old home for a while. Let her get used to it and we’ll go down in the spring.”

Hearing that my mother was not well, Edward came to see us, and it was then we heard about his coming wedding, which was to be in March.

“It will make things easier,” he said. “We always intended to, but Gretchen feels she should visit her family and, quite frankly, I don’t like her going over. If we were married, she would be English…and that will make a difference.”

“They haven’t had any more of…that sort of thing?” I asked.

He shook his head. “But that man is still around, and I don’t like it.”

“I understand that,” said my mother.

When he had gone my mother expressed a certain fear to me.

“There is no doubt that he cares deeply for Gretchen, and she is a nice girl, but I wonder if he is marrying her out of pity.”

“Well, what is wrong with that?” I asked.

“It just is not enough.”

“He was very interested in her because of that business in the schloss.”

“Oh, I expect it is all right. I always looked upon Edward as my baby.”

“I know. I hope you’ll feel well enough to go to his wedding.”

“I’ve made up my mind that I’m going.”

She did, though the cold was still hanging around. The Greenham grandparents arranged this one. I wondered what Mrs. Mills would have said about its taking place from the bridegroom’s home, which I imagined was stepping aside from convention. But, of course, in this case the bride’s home was in Germany, so perhaps the fates would have made a concession on that account. It was not like Dermot…who could have stayed in a hotel.

I told my mother what I was thinking and we laughed together over it.

It was a charming wedding. Gretchen looked delightful and happy, although she suffered some anxiety over her family, but at least no trouble at the schloss had been reported.

During the honeymoon she and Edward would see her family, and later she did tell me that they were very happy about the marriage.

My parents and I with Grandmother Belinda traveled back to Caddington; I saw immediately how fatigued my mother was and that her cold had worsened, so I said she must go to bed and I would have supper with her there.

She declared she was much better and over our food we talked of Edward.

She said: “It was so moving to see him there, a grown man, actually getting married. When first I saw him he was a baby in a perambulator in the Plantains’ cottage garden.”

“Who were the Plantains?”

“They were his foster parents,” she told me. “He was to be brought up by them because Madame Plantain had just lost her own baby. It had been stillborn. She had been heartbroken…until Edward was brought to her.”

“What happened to Edward’s parents?”

She said: “I suppose you will have to know one day. I remember his great-grandfather’s saying, ‘There is a time for silence,’ and it was then. But now…it is a long time ago.”

“Do you mean Jean Pascal Bourdon, Grandmother Belinda’s father? The one who left Edward that house in France?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “This is for you only. Don’t tell anyone, not Dorabella particularly. She could never keep a secret. Jean Pascal Bourdon was Edward’s great-grandfather. He arranged it all. He was a very sophisticated aristocrat. He knew how to manage things. You see, it all came about when Annabelinda, Grandmother Belinda’s daughter, your father’s sister…”

“Aunt Annabelinda …the one who died in that old house?”

“It’s a complicated story. But Annabelinda, when she was at school with me, fell in love with a young man. He was German. Edward was the result. Annabelinda was only a schoolgirl. We were in Belgium. Jean Pascal arranged it all and for Madame Plantain to take the child in place of her own. She lived near the school. I met her and saw the baby, though I did not know at first that he was Annabelinda’s. I found out by chance and they had to let me into the secret. Then the war came; the cottage was bombed, the Plantains were killed, and I came along and found the baby in his perambulator in the garden. I brought him home. But the fact of his birth was hushed up.”

“Does Edward know?”

“Yes, he does. I told him only recently. I talked it over with your father and Grandmother Belinda. For some time I could not decide what to do for the best. Jean Pascal had been so certain that he should not be told. Edward does not know everything, not exactly who his father was. But he knows he was German and that his mother was Annabelinda. So he knows that he is one of us, and I think that pleases him very much. He belongs to the family, and we thought he should not be kept in the dark any longer. People have a right to know who their parents are.”

“I expect he will tell Gretchen.”

“I daresay. I am glad that he married her.”

“But you thought it might have been out of pity.”

“I believe it will be all right, though. It is like a pattern, you see. He is half German and he is attracted by a German girl. Don’t you think it is significant that they should be attracted by each other?”

“It seems so. And by Kurt, too, when they met at college. They were drawn together, I suppose, and they became great friends. It could well be something to do with their being of the same nationality, even though they did not know it. And then, of course…Gretchen.”

“I am sure they will be very happy. I am glad that he has married her and taken her away from that…unpleasantness.”

Dorabella married. Edward married. There is change all about us. For so long everything went on as it always had…and now…change.

I had heard from Dorabella now and then. She had a rather unexpected trait; she liked writing letters, and, of course, most of what she wrote would come my way. So far they had been short—an indication that everything was going well. I believed she was not missing me as much as I was her. I had replied and told her about our mother’s health and what was happening at Caddington. I explained that the reason I had not been to see her was because of our mother’s persistent cold and, as she would want to accompany me to Cornwall, I did not feel it would be wise to come.

They were ordinary letters. Then one came which was different. Because it was a long letter, I took it to my bedroom so that I might enjoy it without interruptions.