Philippa Carr - The Changeling

I was rather glad of their company. I found them both interesting and in a way amusing. Moreover they expressed admiration for me and I was vain enough to enjoy this.

Jean Pascal was an excellent dancing partner. I loved dancing and, thanks to Madame Perrotte, when I danced with him I thought I did really well. People actually commented on how well our styles matched.

I learned a little about both men. Jean Pascal had become a wine importer and paid periodic visits to France.

“I must do something, you understand,” he said. “I cannot dance all day.”

There was something completely sophisticated about him. He was a cynic and a realist at heart, I believed. It was his great hope that one day the monarchy would be restored in France and then he would return to his own country and live in the old chateau in the style to which he had become accustomed under the rule of his good friends the Emperor Napoleon III and the Empress Eugenie.

“Will that ever be?” I asked him.

He lifted his shoulders. “There have been movements. There is trouble with the government. It sways this way and that. Our great tragedy came with that accursed revolution. If we had kept our monarchy then all would be well today.”

“But that happened a hundred years ago.”

“And nothing has been right since. We had Napoleon. Then we began to be great again … but now … these communards … I always hope … So I go to France. I bring in the wine. I do England a great favor. There is no wine in the world like French wine.”

“The Germans wouldn’t agree with you.”

“The Germans!” He snapped his fingers with contempt.

“They beat you, you know,” I reminded him maliciously.

“We were foolish. We did not believe in their strength. They ruined everything when they came.”

“And now we have a big power in Germany in Europe.”

“A tragedy. But one day perhaps we shall come back.”

“You mean the French aristocrats?”

“And then you will see.”

“Well, now you have connections in England. Your sister is married to one of our members of Parliament.”

He nodded. “Yes, that is good.”

“For your sister?”

“Yes, for my sister.”

I wondered if he knew of his sister’s sadness. But he would not consider that, I imagined. It would be a good marriage because Benedict Lansdon was a wealthy and rising politician with very likely a brilliant future before him.

It came out that Jean Pascal had plans to marry in France. The lady in question was a member of the deposed royal family. At the moment she was of little importance but if the monarchy returned, well then Jean Pascal could find himself in a very exalted position. He was not marrying her yet though. The situation was too uncertain. He did not actually tell me this, but he did not attempt to disguise it either.

Although I found him amusing, there were some aspects of his character which filled me with distrust and a certain apprehension. It was the manner in which he looked at me and some other women. It was almost with speculation and what I had begun to think of as lust. That he was a man of deep sensuality, I was sure. I had gathered that long ago, for I had seen him glance at the more attractive of the maids; but in his conversation there would be certain innuendoes which I pretended not to understand; but I fancied he was so knowledgeable about the feminine mind that he was aware that I understood very well.

He seemed to have a contempt for my innocence, for my lack of sophistication, for my youthful inexperience and I fancied he was hinting that he could initiate me into a world of pleasure and understanding.

I hoped I had shown him that I was not interested in acquiring experience through him; but he was so sure of his infinite wisdom in such matters that he believed he knew what was good for me far better than I did myself.

It was an intriguing situation and I was missing Pedrek. I had only his weekly letters to compensate for his absence and I found the time passed quickly in the company of Jean Pascal.

There was always Oliver Gerson. He was amusing, witty and charming. He was not at all the functions. I think some of the more aristocratic mammas thought he was not quite worthy. However, I did see him fairly frequently and he did make it clear that he enjoyed my company.

So with my secret engagement to Pedrek, I was able to enjoy the functions without that feeling of apprehension that I was failing to become a success, which had dogged poor Morwenna and Helena during their seasons. I was able to give myself up to the enjoyment of those occasions, as much as I could without Pedrek’s company.

So the months passed and the season was drawing to an end.

It was time that Benedict and his wife went to Manorleigh for a spell—and of course I went with them.

TO COME TO MANORLEIGH after having been away from it for some time was an emotional experience. Memories of my mother came flooding back. I could not forget those locked rooms, untouched since her death; and there was a certain intimacy in the house which the London one lacked.

For instance, in London I used to go out with Morwenna and Helena; there had been shopping expeditions and visits to then-houses and I did not see Benedict for days when he was busy at the House of Commons. Celeste had had her friends—wives of members like herself who met frequently. But in Manor Grange it was different. We all seemed closer together and I found that disconcerting.

The children were delighted to see me and for the first few days I spent my time mainly in the nursery, catching up on what had been happening during my absence.

They had been progressing with their riding and I went down to the paddock to watch them. They were good enough now to leave the paddock and take to the road with a groom in attendance. They both loved their ponies dearly.

Leah looked a little better than she had in London. I asked if her headaches no longer troubled her.

“Very rarely now, thank you, Miss Rebecca,” she said. “I trust you had a successful season in London.”

“Oh yes,” I told her. “Mr. Cartwright unfortunately had to leave town. He’s gone to Cornwall to a mining engineering college. We shall see him when he comes down to visit his grandparents there.”

“Are we going to Cornwall soon?”

“My grandparents are suggesting we go.”

“The children always enjoy it.”

“And I daresay you are looking forward to seeing your old home.”

A blank expression crossed her face. She must love Cornwall but it did contain her mother. I gathered that Mrs. Polhenny was still plying her trade. My grandmother had written that she had acquired a bicycle with wooden wheels and iron tires—what was called an old bone-shaker—and that she rattled up and down the hills getting to and from her patients. It was daring for a woman of her age but I supposed she had commanded the Lord to look after her.

I could well understand that Leah, who had lived in her mother’s holy shadow for so many years, would be glad to escape and could not have any great desire to get within a few miles of it.

Back in Manorleigh we were plunged into a whirl of activity. Benedict was rarely at home; he went travelling round the constituency which covered a large area, speaking at meetings, attending conferences and on certain days attending what was called “the surgery” which was conducted in a small room leading from the hall where he listened to complaints and suggestions from his constituents.

We all seemed to be caught up in parliamentary duties.

When he was not at home people sometimes called with problems and Celeste was expected to listen to their accounts and answer sympathetically, explaining the unavoidable absence of her husband before whom the matter would be put on his return.

On one occasion, when Benedict was away for a few days, one of the farmers called. He was concerned about a right of way which people were using discriminatingly and damaging his corn.

Celeste was not at home and I happened to be there so I took him into the little room called the surgery and let him talk to me.

Having been brought up at Cador, I did understand what he was talking about.

“I remember something very like it in Cornwall,” I told him. “The farmer put up a fence leaving just a narrow path. His workmen were able to do it very quickly and his crops were safe.”

“I’ve been thinking of it, but I didn’t want to go to the expense.”

“It’s worth it,” I assured him. “You see, there is this law about rights of way.”

“You have a point,” he said. “I was wondering if there was anything Mr. Lansdon could do about it.”

“The law is the law, and unless it’s changed it stands.”

“Well, thank you for your attention. You’re his stepdaughter, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s better talking to you than to the foreign lady.”

“You mean Mrs. Lansdon.”

“She doesn’t know what you’re talking about half the time. It’s different with you. You’ve got good sense.”

“It is on account of my being brought up on my grandparents’ estate.”

“That’s what I say. You know what you’re talking about. It’s a pleasure to talk to you.”

A few days later Benedict returned home. He met the farmer who told him that he had called at the house and what a bright and intelligent young lady his stepdaughter was.

I always avoided Benedict when I could and the relationship between us was as uneasy as it had ever been. Belinda was the same with him. It was his fault. He could not bear to look at her. Oddly enough, he was happier in Lucie’s company with whose existence he need not concern himself. She did not arouse any sad memories in him. Lucie was attractive and well mannered; she caused him no annoyance, whereas Belinda was the one left to him as a substitute for Angelet—and he could not forgive her for that. It was unfair. Belinda was not an easy child to handle but she was blameless on that score.

“I understand you took surgery the other day,” he said to me.

“Oh, there was no one else about.”

“They shouldn’t come when I am not here. There is a special day for it.”

“The farmer must have forgotten that.”

“You impressed him.”

“Oh … it was about a right of way … similar to a case we had in Cornwall.”

“He said it was good to talk to someone sensible who knew something about things.”

“Oh … I’m flattered.”

“Thank you, Rebecca.”

I said: “Well, I happened to be around and he caught me.”

My resentment was as great as ever. I did not want him to think I was going out of my way to help him.

I left him quickly. I hoped the farmer had not mentioned that he preferred to talk to me rather than to Celeste.

I was growing sorry for Celeste. The marriage was a great mistake. I could see that and it was his fault mostly.

He did not care. He had a wife which was what was expected of him. She was a good hostess and so elegant that her appearance carried her through. That was what he had needed. Did he ever think that she would not be content to be a puppet set up to further his ambitions? Did he not think she might want a loving husband? I knew enough to see that she craved his affection; I believed she was a passionate woman who needed to be loved. It was cruel to have married her if he intended to remain aloof … mourning one who was lost to him for ever.

There was something very wrong in this house. There was a brooding feeling of tragedy. Perhaps I was fanciful. It might be because I knew something of the deep passion which had existed between him and my mother—a feeling of such intensity that it could not die because one of them had. What happened in that silent room behind the locked door? Her brushes were on the table … her clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Could she come back to him there? I had thought she came to me once. Perhaps when a person is deeply loved that person becomes part of the one left behind; there is a bond which even death cannot break.

But Poor Celeste was living flesh and blood. Warm and passionately, earnestly desiring … the unwanted one, brought in because the people who had put him into Parliament expected him to have a wife. That was what was wrong in the house and it was more obvious here than it had been in London because behind that locked door my mother seemed to linger.

I was in my room one day, thinking of going for a ride. I was about to change into my riding habit and sat for a moment at the window looking down at the seat under the oak tree, that haunted part of the garden where Lady Flamstead was said to have returned to be with the daughter she had never seen.