My mother, as the prospective member’s fiancée, was a great success.
Uncle Peter said: “There is nothing like the romantic touch for getting people’s votes.”
I felt alone—apart; it seemed as though my mother had already gone. They were all so busy. No one could talk of anything but elections; and Miss Brown had started a series of lessons on the Prime Ministers of England. I was heartily tired of Sir Robert Peel and his Peelers and Lord Palmerston and his gun-boat policies.
“If you are going to be a member of a political family, you must know something of the country’s leaders,” said Miss Brown archly.
Everyone was certain that Benedict Lansdon was going to win the seat although it had been in the hands of the Tories for over a hundred years. He was working indefatigably in Manorleigh, they said, speaking every night. My mother was often with him.
“She’s a natural,” commented Uncle Peter, who had travelled to Manorleigh to attend some of the meetings. “She’s the politician’s ideal wife … another Helena. Wives are a very important part of a member’s ménage.”
Nothing else seemed to exist for them. I was surprised by my attitude. I was wishing he would not win and reproaching myself for it. It would be such a great disappointment to all the people I loved best—most of all my mother. A little failure would be good for him, I told myself virtuously; but I knew in my heart that I hated him because he had spoilt my contented and peaceful existence when he came to play such a prominent part in my mother’s life.
To the great delight of all the family, he won. I had always known that he would. He had taken the first step. He was now the Member of Parliament for Manorleigh. There was a great deal of publicity about it, because he had snatched the seat from the Tories who had held it for over a hundred years.
I was able to read about him in the papers. Writers tried to assess the reasons for his victory. He was knowledgeable; he had a ready wit; he was good-tempered with hecklers. They admitted he had fought a good campaign and he appeared to have the qualities necessary to make a good Member of Parliament. He was connected with Martin Hume who held cabinet rank in the Tory administration—albeit on the other side of the fence. It was a triumph for the Liberals. Mr. Gladstone expressed his satisfaction.
Benedict had been fortunate in having a newcomer to the neighborhood in his opponent, whereas he had fought the seat some time earlier; he had been set for victory then but the scandal attaching to his wife’s death happening at such a critical moment had let in his opponent.
Well, here he was and Manorleigh could be congratulated on electing its new member, one who promised to show energy and enthusiasm if his campaign was anything to go by.
Uncle Peter was delighted. He was tremendously proud of his grandson. There was great rejoicing throughout the family and my mother was particularly excited.
“Now,” she said, “we have to settle into that house in Manorleigh. Oh, Becca, won’t that be fun?”
Would it? I wondered.
Christmas had passed and spring was approaching. The wedding day grew near.
I had tried to shake off my foreboding. I had on one or two occasions tried to talk to my mother about Benedict. She was eager enough to talk but did not tell me what I wanted to hear.
Often in the past she had told me about those days she had spent with my father and Pedrek’s parents in the mining township. I had heard so much that I could see it clearly; the mine shaft, the shop where everything was sold, the shacks in which they lived, the celebrations when someone found gold. I could see the eager faces in the light of the fires on which they cooked their steaks; I could almost feel the hungry greed for gold.
I always saw my father as different from the others—the debonair adventurer who had come half way round the world to make his fortune. He was always merry, lighthearted, my mother told me; he always believed that luck would come to him. I could picture him so clearly I glowed with pride; I was desperately sad because I had never had the privilege of knowing him; and there followed his heroic end which fitted into the picture of my ideal. Why hadn’t he lived? Then there would have been no possibility of my mother’s marrying Benedict Lansdon.
Desperately I hoped that something would happen to prevent this marriage, but the days passed and the wedding day was fast approaching.
Benedict Lansdon had been fortunate in finding an old manor house on the market. It needed a good deal of restoration but my mother had said she would love to help in doing that. It had been built sometime in the early 1400s and restored in the days of Henry VIII—at least the two lower stories had; the upper one was pure medieval.
I should have been greatly interested in it if it had not been his house, for it was quite impressive if one did not compare it with Cador. It was shut in by red brick walls and there was an overgrown garden. I did like the garden. It was a place to lose oneself in. My mother was very excited. She was in a mood to find everything connected with her life wonderful. I wanted to remain aloof, but I could not. I was completely fascinated by Manor Grange, which was the name of the house, and I was drawn into discussions on medieval tiles and linen fold paneling, for the roof was faulty and we had to find the right tiles for repair, which was not easy, as they had to be both ancient and in good condition.
There was a long gallery for which my mother was collecting pictures. Aunt Amaryllis gave her some and my grandparents said she could choose what she wanted from Cador. I could have shared her enthusiasm if Benedict had not been part of it.
Above the gallery were the attics—big rooms with sloping ceilings which would be the servants’ quarters. Mr. and Mrs. Emery had been down to see the rooms they would have and had expressed their delight.
“You must move in before the wedding,” my mother had told her, “just to get everything ready for when we return … Perhaps you could go about a week before.”
Mrs. Emery thought that would be excellent.
“It will be necessary to engage more staff,” said my mother. “We’ll have to go into that carefully.”
Mrs. Emery agreed, bristling with pride which the responsibility of being in charge of a larger household brought her.
It was arranged that the furniture my mother wanted to keep should go down a week or so before the wedding. Our house would be put up for sale and the week before the wedding my mother and I would stay with Aunt Amaryllis and Uncle Peter. My grandparents, who would be coming to London for the wedding, would stay there also.
It was with great pleasure that the Emerys installed themselves in the new house, taking Jane and Ann with them. The Emerys immediately set about engaging more staff. They had changed overnight; they bristled with importance. Mrs. Emery affected black bombazine which rustled as she walked; she had also acquired jet beads and earrings which seemed to be the insignia of housekeeping dignity. She had assumed a new aura; she was imperious and formidable. Mr. Emery was only slightly less so. He was most carefully dressed in a morning coat with striped trousers. There was a world of difference in being butler to Mr. Benedict Lansdon, M.P., from handyman at the small residence of Mrs. Mandeville.
My mother laughed immoderately about the attitude of the servants and I laughed with her. So there were times when we seemed as close as we had ever been.
Then there was the house which was to be our London residence. It was tall, elegant and Georgian, situated in a London square opposite enclosed gardens. It was similar to that of Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis, only Benedict Lansdon’s—naturally—was even more grand. There was a spacious hall and a wide staircase, ideal for receiving guests before they were conducted to the lofty drawing room on the first floor where of course a Member of Parliament with high ambitions would do a great deal of entertaining. It was furnished with expensive simplicity—red and white with a touch of gold here and there. I wondered if I should ever feel it was home to me. I believed I would always think longingly of my room in our old house which was about half the size of the one allocated to me here.
Miss Brown’s was almost as large. Then we had a schoolroom on the same floor—very different from the little box of a room where Miss Brown and I used to work.
Miss Brown was as delighted by the change as the Emerys but she did not show it so blatantly. I wondered if I should have shared their pleasure in our more opulent way of life if I had not had to accept Benedict Lansdon with it.
It was coming closer. The servants had left for Manorleigh; my mother and I had moved in with Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis and the preparations seemed more intensive than ever. Nobody spoke of anything but the wedding.
My grandparents arrived. I was allowed to join the dinner party. Uncle Peter had said that as soon as the children came of a reasonable age they should do so because it was good for them to listen to the conversation of adults which gave them confidence. I have to admit to being a little fascinated by him. He was always so charming to everyone and made me feel that, young as I was, I was of some importance. There was none of that “not for the children” attitude from him. He would often address me and sometimes when he was talking at the table his eyes would meet mine and it was almost as though there was a secret understanding between us. What made him so attractive was that aura of wickedness about him. I knew there was something, but I was not sure what. It set him apart, some scandal from the past which he had overridden and from which he had emerged triumphantly by snapping his fingers at conventions. Mystery was very attractive. I was constantly trying to find out what he had done but no one would tell me.
It was strange because he reminded me so much of Benedict. I had the feeling that when he was Benedict’s age he must have been rather like his grandson. Scandal had touched them both … and neither of them had allowed it to destroy him. There was something indestructible about him. I hated Benedict. I had admitted it at last. And it was because I was afraid of him. But on the other hand, because I had nothing to fear from Uncle Peter, I was fond of him.
There was no doubt that Uncle Peter was delighted by the coming marriage; he beamed his approval. He was certain that Benedict was going to succeed and politics had always fascinated him. He himself had planned such a career and whatever that scandalous thing was in his past, it had put an end to it. But he lived politics through his son-in-law Martin Hume. I had heard it said: “Martin is Peter’s puppet.” I wondered if this was so. I could well believe it. And now Benedict was to follow that tradition. But of one thing I was certain: Benedict would never be anyone’s puppet.
Uncle Peter was very rich. So was Benedict. I had an inkling that they had both come to be wealthy in a rather shady way.
I wished I knew more. What frustration it is to be young … when people hide things from you and you can only glean little pieces of information. It is like fitting together a jigsaw puzzle with the most important bits missing.
Conversation at the dinner table was all about the wedding and the honeymoon which was to be in Italy. They would not go to France because that was where my mother had had her first honeymoon with my father. She used to tell me about the little hotel in the mountains overlooking the sea, where they had stayed.
“I wouldn’t stay away too long,” said Uncle Peter. “You don’t want the people of Manorleigh to think their new M.P. is deserting them.”
“We shall be away a month,” my mother told him, and, seeing Uncle Peter looked a little shocked, she added: “I insisted.”
“So you see,” said Benedict, “I had to agree.”
“I am sure the electorate of Manorleigh would realize that a honeymoon is a rather special occasion,” put in my grandfather.
My mother smiled at Uncle Peter. “You are always saying that the people love romance. I think they might have been disappointed in us if we had cut it short.”
“Good reasoning perhaps,” conceded Uncle Peter.
When we went to our rooms that night, my grandmother followed me up.
“I wanted to have a little talk,” she said. “Where shall you be while you are waiting for them to come back?”
I said: “I can stay here.”
“Is that what you want?”
I hesitated. The tenderness in her voice touched me deeply, and I was horrified to discover that I was near to tears.
“I … I don’t know,” I said.
“I thought you didn’t.” She smiled brightly. “Why don’t you come back with us? Your grandfather and I were talking about it coming up in the train and said how nice it would be if you decided to come and stay with us for a while. Miss Brown could come and … well, you might as well be at Cador as here.”
“Oh … I’d like that.”
“Then it’s settled. Aunt Amaryllis won’t mind. She’d understand that you might feel a little lonely here, whereas a complete change of scene … we all know you love Cador … to say nothing of how we should love to have you.”
“Oh, Granny,” I cried, and flung myself into her arms.
I did weep a little but she pretended not to notice.
“It’s the best time of the year for Cornwall,” she said.
So they were married. My mother looked beautiful in a dress of pale lavender and a hat of the same color with an ostrich feather to shade her face. Benedict looked very distinguished; everyone said what a handsome pair they made.
There were many important people there and they all came back to the house where Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis played their accustomed role of host and hostess.
Uncle Peter was obviously pleased by the way in which everything had gone. As for myself, my depression had deepened. All my hopes for the miracle which was going to stop the marriage had come to nothing. Heaven had turned from me and my prayers had fallen on deaf ears. My mother, Mrs. Angelet Mandeville, was now Mrs. Benedict Lansdon.
And he was my stepfather.
Everyone was assembled in the drawing room; the cake had been cut, the champagne drunk, the speeches made. It was time for the departure on the honeymoon.
My mother had gone to her room to change. As she passed me she said: “Rebecca, come with me. I want to talk.”
Willingly I followed her.
When we were in her bedroom she turned to me, concern showing on her face.
“Oh Becca,” she said, “I wish I hadn’t got to leave you.”
I felt a rush of happiness and, fearing to show my true feelings, I said: “I could hardly expect to go with you on your honeymoon.”
“I’ll miss you.”
I nodded.
“I hope you’ll be all right. I am so glad you are going to Cornwall. It’s where you’d rather be, I know. You do love them so much, don’t you … and Cador …?”
I nodded again.
She held me tightly in her arms.
“When I come back … it’s going to be wonderful. You’ll share things with us …”
I just smiled and pretended that I was content. I had to. I could not spoil the happiness which I knew was hers.
I stood with the others waving goodbye.
My grandmother was beside me. She took my hand and pressed it.
The next day I was with them on our way to Cornwall.
The Waiting Months
MY GRANDMOTHER WAS RIGHT. Spring is undoubtedly the best time in Cornwall. I felt better when I smelt the sea. I stood at the carriage window as we chuffed through red-soiled Devon where the train ran close to the sea for a few miles … then leaving lush Devon behind and crossing the Tamar into Cornwall which had its own special fey quality to be found nowhere else.
And in time we had arrived. The station master greeted us and one of the grooms was waiting with the carriage to take us to Cador. I felt more emotional than usual when I saw the grey stone walls and those towers facing the sea; and I knew I had been right to come.
My familiar room was ready for me and soon I was at the window watching the gulls swooping and screeching and the white frothy waves slightly ruffled by the breeze blowing in from the southwest.
My grandmother looked in and said: “I�
�m glad you came. Your grandfather was afraid you might not.”
I turned and smiled at her. “Of course I came,” I said, and we laughed together.
Miss Brown was pleased to be in Cornwall although I think she was looking forward to being in her new grand quarters at Manorleigh and in London.
“The change will be good,” she said. “A bridge between the old and new way of life.”
I slept more deeply that night than I had for some time and was undisturbed by the vague dreams which had haunted my sleep lately. Benedict Lansdon was usually somewhere in those dreams … a rather sinister figure. I told no one of them. I knew people would say I was building up feelings against him for no other reason than that I resented a stepfather. And perhaps they would be right.
The next day at breakfast, my grandmother said: “What shall you do today?”
“Well, Miss Brown thinks we should waste no more time. Lessons have been a little interrupted lately and she thinks we should get down to normal work without delay.”
My grandmother grimaced. “What does that mean … lessons in the morning?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Is that the law?” asked my grandfather.
“As unalterable as that of the Medes and the Persians,” replied my grandmother.
“I was hoping we’d have a ride together today,” he went on. “Perhaps this afternoon, as this morning seems to be devoted to work.”
“You ought to go and see Jack and Marian,” said my grandmother. “They’ll be put out if you don’t take Rebecca along.”
Jack was my mother’s brother. One day he would inherit Cador and he had been brought up to manage the estate. This he did with the same single-mindedness which his father had always shown. He did not live at Cador now although I supposed in due course he would come back to the ancestral home. He, with his wife and five-year-old twins, lived at Dorey Manor—a lovely Elizabethan manor-house. They were often at Cador. On his marriage he had expressed a desire for a separate household, which I think was due to his wife who, although she was very fond of my grandmother, was the sort of woman who would want to be absolute mistress in her own household. It seemed an excellent arrangement.
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