“Have you told the grandparents?”
“Not yet. I shall write tomorrow. I didn’t want to before I was sure. Oh, it is going to be marvelous. Of course, I shall not be able to get about so much later on. I shall be here … at home …”
She held me tightly against her.
She was right. It would be wonderful.
The news was out. My grandparents were delighted. They were going to spend Christmas with us. Uncle Peter thought the news was excellent. The voters liked their members to have satisfactory married lives. They liked to see the children coming along.
Mrs. Emery thought it was good news and Jane and Ann, together with the new maids who had been engaged, were all excited at the prospect of having a baby in the house.
It was wonderful to see the grandparents for Christmas. It was our first at Manor Grange. The house was decorated with holly, ivy, and mistletoe; the yule log was ceremoniously drawn in; Christmas Day was a family affair but on Boxing Day there was a dinner party for Benedict’s important friends in the Party. Mrs. Grant said she was run off her feet, but that was how it should be and she doubted Manor Grange had ever seen such entertaining before, which came of my stepfather’s being the M.P.
“As long as I can get my cup of tea and my little ‘feet-up’ I can cope with it,” she said. And she did, magnificently. Mr. Emery was able to play the dignified butler and Mrs. Emery to show us all that her post of housekeeper was no sinecure.
On Christmas morning we all went to church and walked back across the fields to the house. My grandmother slipped her arm through mine and told me how pleased she was that I seemed to be happier, and added that it was wonderful that I was to have a little brother or sister.
Christmas was the time of peace and goodwill and everything seemed hopeful on that day. I even liked Benedict Lansdon … well, not exactly liked, but admired. He was so gracious to everyone … all those dignitaries from the Party. His manners were easy—not quite so suave as some of the gentlemen but that gave them a touch of sincerity which people liked.
He kept a watchful eye on my mother and admonished her now and then for not resting enough. My grandparents looked on with approval at this. They were very happy indeed, and now that my grandmother had convinced herself—and I expect my grandfather—that I was becoming reconciled to the situation, there was nothing to disturb her.
My mother complained laughingly that we were all treating her like a semi-invalid. They should remember that she was not the first woman on Earth to have a baby. She was perfectly all right … and would they stop fussing? “And that includes you, Benedict,” she added.
Everyone laughed and so it was a happy Christmas, even for me … the last I was to know for a long time.
It seemed that my mother had returned to me to a certain extent. There were days when she felt the need to rest. I was with her. I used to read to her; she loved that. We were reading Jane Eyre which Miss Brown thought might be a little old for me, but my mother believed it was quite suitable.
Neither my mother nor my grandparents had tried to shield me from the facts of life as most guardians of children did. They believed that as I had to live a life I might as well know as much about it as I was able to absorb.
I realize it had made me a little old for my years. Pedrek was the same.
So this was a happier time than I had known since I had first heard that my mother was going to marry.
Then came the blow.
My stepfather was in London for the House was sitting. My mother had been going with him but just before they were about to leave she had been tired and Benedict had insisted that she remain at Manorleigh to rest.
I was delighted.
It was a bright March day, I remember. There was a chill in the air but I fancied I could feel the first signs of spring; there were masses of yellow blossoms among the shrubs. We made our way to what was known as my seat and sat there, looking across the pond where Hermes stood poised for flight.
We were talking of the baby … our main topic of conversation these days. When next we were in London, my mother was saying, she wanted to find some special baby linen she had heard about.
“You must help me choose,” she said.
Then one of the maids appeared. She told us that one of the servants from the London house had just arrived and wanted to see my mother. It turned out to be Alfred the footman.
My mother rose in alarm. “Alfred!” she cried.
“Pray do not be alarmed, Madam,” said Alfred.
My mother interrupted: “Something is wrong. Mr. Lansdon …”
Alfred found it difficult to discard his dignity even in a crisis. “Mr. Lansdon is well, Madam. It is on his orders that I am here. He thought it better for me to come than to communicate in the normal way. It is Mr. Peter Lansdon. He has been taken ill. The family is gathering at the house, Madam. Mr. Lansdon thought, that if you were well enough to travel, you might wish to be there.”
“Uncle Peter …” said my mother. She looked at Alfred. “What is wrong? Do you know?”
“Yes, Madam. Mr. Peter Lansdon suffered a stroke during the night. His condition is said to be … not good. It is for this reason …”
She said: “We will leave as soon as possible. Alfred, have you had something to eat? Go to Mrs. Emery. She will see to you while we prepare ourselves to leave.”
I took her arm and we went indoors. I could see that she was shaken.
“Uncle Peter,” she murmured. “I do hope he won’t … I do hope he’ll be all right. I always thought of him as … indestructible.”
We caught the three-thirty train to London and went straight to Uncle Peter’s house. Benedict was there. He embraced my mother tenderly and hardly seemed to notice me.
“I was afraid after I’d sent Alfred that it might have been a shock, darling,” he said. “I guessed you’d want to be here … but… actually he was asking for you.”
“How is he?”
Benedict shook his head.
Aunt Amaryllis came out, looking lost and bewildered. I had never seen her like that before. She seemed unaware that we were there.
“Aunt Amaryllis,” said my mother. “Oh … my dear …”
“He was all right just before,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I didn’t have a notion … and then suddenly … he just collapsed.”
We stood round his bed. He looked different … handsome, distinguished but different. He was very pale and seemed old … much older than when I had last seen him.
I looked at those round the bed … his family … the people who had been closest to him. I was struck by the incredulity in those faces. He was dying and they all knew it, and death was something one had never thought of in connection with Uncle Peter. But it had overtaken him at last and there he lay … the buccaneer who had adventured on the high seas of life … winning most of the time and often not too scrupulously, I had heard it whispered in the family. Only once had he come near to disaster. That was in connection with the rather notorious and disreputable clubs which he ran at great profit and on which his fortune had been founded. Then he had become a philanthropist, and a great deal of that money which had come through questionable sources had gone back into good works like the Mission run by his son Peterkin and his wife Frances.
I think we had all loved him. He was a rogue, yes, but a very wise one. I knew my mother had loved him as my grandmother had. He had always been kind and helpful. Amaryllis had adored him; she had refused to see any fault in him. The others realized his rogueries … and loved him none the less because of them.
And now he was dying.
There were pieces in the papers about him—the millionaire philanthropist, they called him. They were all saying flattering things about him and there was no hint of the manner in which his fortune had been acquired. To be dead is to be sanctified. I supposed it was because people ceased to be envious. Everybody wants to be a millionaire but nobody wants to be dead. So envy evaporates. Moreover, people often
feel uneasy about defaming the dead … especially the newly dead. Perhaps there is a fear of haunting. “Never speak ill of the dead,” they say.
So Uncle Peter was remembered for his good deeds rather than his evil ones. There were many people at the funeral. Aunt Amaryllis was dazed with grief; and even Frances, whose brilliant work at the Mission had been so outstanding and who had never pretended to have a good opinion of her father-in-law, was sad. As for the rest of us, we were quite desolate.
I was only just beginning to be aware of change and now I found it everywhere.
In due course the will was read. I was not present at that ceremony, but I heard about it later.
The servants were pleased. They had all received their legacies. Everything had been taken care of, I was told, which one would expect of Uncle Peter. Aunt Amaryllis was well provided for; Helena, and Martin, Peterkin and Frances all had their portions. He had a great fortune to leave but the larger part of it was in his business which meant the notorious clubs; and these he had left to his grandson, Benedict Lansdon.
They were whispering about it and I wondered what differences this would mean.
I was soon to discover. The relationship between my mother and her husband had undergone a slight change. She was no longer idyllically happy. In fact there was a certain uneasiness about her.
I had seen them in the garden together. Instead of laughing and now and then touching hands, they walked with a slight distance between each other, yet in earnest conversation … frowning … emphatic … in fact one might say arguing.
It dawned on me that it had something to do with this new inheritance from Uncle Peter.
I wished my mother would talk to me about it. But of course she did not. It was one thing to be considered mature enough to read Jane Eyre, but to be involved in discussion of this delicate affair was quite different.
My mother was very worried.
I did overhear her discussing it with Frances. Frances was one of those rather uncomfortable people who are kind and considerate when dealing with the masses and less so with individuals. She was of sterling character; she had devoted her life to good works; she had said she accepted money from Uncle Peter with gratitude for she did not care how that money had been come by as long as it came her way and she could use it to the good of her Mission. But she had always been more critical of Uncle Peter than any other member of the family. She had accepted him for what he was and was like Elizabeth of England, gratefully receiving plunder which her pirate-heroes brought her and pouring it into the treasury for the good of her country.
This was logical reasoning of course and one would never expect anything else from Frances.
She said: “Benedict should sell off the clubs. They’d bring him a fortune. Surely he doesn’t mean to continue with them?”
“He feels it is what Uncle Peter wanted him to do,” said my mother. “It was for that reason he left them to him.”
“Nonsense. Peter would expect him to do what was best for himself … as he always did.”
“Nevertheless …”
“He fancies himself in the role, I daresay. Well, my father-in-law sailed very near the wind, sometimes … and that’s no way for a politician to go.”
“It’s what I tell Benedict.”
“And he thinks he can go on reaping rewards from the underworld and increasing his riches. There is no doubt that money is a great asset in a political career.”
“It frightens me, Frances.”
“Well, like grandfather like grandson. There is no doubting Benedict is a chip off the old block.”
“Benedict is wonderful.”
A brief silence while Frances was no doubt implying her disagreement with that statement.
“Well,” she said at length, “those clubs nearly finished my father-in-law, remember.”
“I know. That’s why …”
“Some men are like that. Offer them a challenge and they’ve got to take it. It’s something to do with their masculine arrogance. They think nothing on Earth can beat them and they have to prove it.”
“But it could ruin him …”
“Well, his grandfather came sailing through, honored and sung to his grave. Men like that don’t think they are living if there is not a bit of danger around them for them to overcome. Don’t worry, Angel. It’s bad for you in your condition. Take care of yourself and let Benedict fend for himself. His kind always come through … and I daresay he knows what he’s doing.”
So that was it. He was going to continue in Uncle Peter’s business. It was dangerous, but then, as Frances had said, that was how men like Benedict and Uncle Peter lived.
Aunt Amaryllis had aged considerably. She was listless and had lost those youthful looks which had been characteristic of her. She caught a chill and could not shake it off. It seemed that now Uncle Peter was dead she could find no purpose in living.
My grandparents came to London. They were concerned about my mother.
I heard them talking together. “She doesn’t look at all well,” said my grandmother. “Quite different from when we saw her last.”
“Well, it’s getting near the time, I suppose,” replied my grandfather.
“No … it’s more than that.”
I was worried.
“Granny,” I said, “is my mother all right?”
She hesitated just a fraction of a second too long. “Oh yes,” she said at length. “She’ll be all right.” But she did speak without conviction. “I was wondering …” she went on, and paused.
“Wondering what?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she answered, leaving it at that.
Later I realized what she had in mind. She and my grandfather wanted my mother to go back with them to Cornwall and have the child there. I did not think she would agree to that for it would mean leaving Benedict. But then … it was not quite the same between them as it had been. This inheritance had come between them. She did not like it and he apparently did. I knew she was trying to persuade him to get out of the business and he was strongly resisting.
My grandfather had long conversations with him and my grandmother talked a little to me.
“I think it would be a good idea if you and your mother came back to Cornwall with us. We ought to go soon while your mother can travel. It could be a little difficult in a few weeks’ time.”
“She won’t want to go. He couldn’t go with her.”
“You mean your stepfather. No, of course he couldn’t. But he could come down for the occasional week-end. It is not so very far and he is used to travelling about.”
“Oh, Granny, I hope she agrees.”
My grandmother squeezed my hand. “We must try to persuade her. You see, it was different before Uncle Peter died. Everything has changed here. We always thought Aunt Amaryllis would look after her in London but she, poor soul, is hardly in a condition to do so. I know your stepfather would make sure that she had the best attention, but somehow I think people want those nearest and dearest to them at such a time. If she were with us you could be there too.”
“Yes,” I said. “Oh yes.”
I spoke to my mother about it.
“Grandmother wants you to go to Cornwall.”
“She is fussing over me.”
“Well, you are her daughter.”
She smiled at me. “Cornwall,” she said. “Sometimes I think of it, Becca. I feel very tired now and then. I do feel as though I want my mother. Isn’t that childish of me?”
I reached for her hand. “I think people do want their mothers at certain times.”
“I believe you are right. I should always be there if you wanted me. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if anything was worrying you.”
I hesitated and she did not pursue the matter. I was aware then that she knew how deeply I resented my stepfather. Perhaps it seemed to her nothing out of the ordinary; it must have happened thousands of times when a mother remarried.
I wished she would tell me how deep wa
s this rift between herself and her husband. Sometimes I thought it did not exist at all and that she was so much in love with him that he might do anything he pleased without changing that love. And what did he feel? How could I know? I was too young and inexperienced to understand these situations.
There were long discussions about the advisability of my mother’s going to Cornwall; and I sensed that she was wavering.
She talked to me more openly. “You would like to go, wouldn’t you, Becca?”
I admitted that I would.
“Poor Becca. You haven’t been very happy lately, have you? You have felt it hasn’t been quite the same with us. First I go away on a honeymoon … and we are apart as we never have been before … and then I am caught up in all this political work.”
“It had to be,” I said.
She nodded. “But you haven’t liked it. I know how you love Granny and your grandfather. I know how you feel about your father. You put him on a pedestal. It doesn’t do to put people on pedestals, Becca.”
What did she mean? Had she discovered that her idol Benedict had feet of clay? She must have done so. He had inherited Uncle Peter’s shady business connections and would not give them up although she begged him to.
What a difference Uncle Peter’s death had made to us all. Aunt Amaryllis no longer provided that rest house in London; no longer did we have the benefit of his advice; and his death had caused a rift between my mother and her new husband.
She went on: “I am not much use … politically … now and I shall not be for some time. I had to cancel an engagement the other day because I suddenly felt quite unable to carry it out. I think it would be better for everyone if I retired from the scene for a while … and if I went to Cornwall I should be less of a burden than if I were here.”
“And my grandparents would be delighted.”
“Yes, bless them. I shan’t mind being a bother to them.”
“A bother! You would be the reason for rejoicing.”
I skipped round the room and she laughed at me.
“When do we leave?” I asked.
Even then I was scared that he might raise some objection. It was clear that he did not like the idea. He was very tender and loving towards her and I thought I saw her wavering again.
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