I talked for a while with Mr. Pegger, then I went back to the rectory carrying the piece of what appeared to be bronze with me. It was oval shaped and about six inches in diameter. I wondered what it would be like when it was cleaned and what I would use it for. I didn't give much thought to it, because talking about Lavinia had made me think about her and what a sad house it must have been when the news was brought that Lavinia, beloved daughter of the Reverend James Osmond and sister of Alison and Dorcas, had been killed in the train which was traveling from Plymouth to London.
"She was killed outright," Dorcas had told me as we stood at her grave while she pruned the roses growing there. "It was a mercy in a way for she would have been an invalid for the rest of her life had she lived. She was twenty-one years old. It was a great tragedy."
"Why was she going to live in London, Dorcas?" I had asked.
"She was going to take up a post."
"What sort of post?"
"Oh . . . governess, I think."
"You think! Weren't you sure?"
"She had been staying with a distant cousin."
"What cousin was that?"
"Oh dear, what a probing child you are! She was a very distant cousin. We never hear of her now. Lavinia had been staying with her so she took the train from Plymouth and then . . . there was this terrible accident. Many people were killed. It was one of the worst accidents in living memory. We were heartbroken."
"That was when you decided to take me in and bring me up to take Lavinia's place."
"Nobody could take Lavinia's place, dear. You have a place of your own."
"But it's not Lavinia's. I'm not a bit like her, am I?"
"Not in the least."
"She was quiet, I suppose, and gentle; and she didn't talk too much, probe or be impulsive or try to order people about ... all the things that I do."
"No, she was not like you, Judith. But she could be very firm on occasions, although she was so gentle."
"So then because she was dead and I was an orphan you decided to take me in. I was related to you."
"A sort of cousin."
"A distant one, I suppose. All your cousins seem to be so distant."
"Well, we knew that you were an orphan and we were so distressed. We thought it would help us all ... and you too of course."
"So I came here and it was all because of Lavinia."
So considering all this I felt that Lavinia had had a marked effect on my life; and I fell to wondering what would have happened to me if Lavinia had not decided to take that particular train to London.
It was cool in the stone hall of the old rectory, cool and dark. On the hall table stood a great bowl of buddleia, lavender, and roses. Some of the rose petals had already fallen onto the stone flags of the hall floor. The rectory was an old house, almost as old as Keverall Court. Built in the early days of Elizabeth's reign it had been the residence of rectors over the last three hundred years. Their names were inscribed on a tablet in the church. The rooms were large and some beautifully paneled but dark because of the small windows with their leaded panes. There was an air of great quietness brooding over the house and it was particularly noticeable on this hot day.
I went up the staircase to my room; and the first thing I did was wash the soil from the ornament. I had poured water from the ewer into the basin and was dabbing it with cotton wool when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," I called. Dorcas and Alison were standing there. They looked so solemn that I completely forgot the ornament and cried out: "Is anything wrong?"
"We heard you come in," said Alison.
"Oh dear, did I make a lot of noise?"
They looked at each other and exchanged smiles.
"We were listening for you," said Dorcas.
There was silence. This was unusual. "Something is wrong," I insisted.
"No, dear, nothing has changed. We have been making up our minds to speak to you for some time; and as it is your birthday and fourteen is a sort of milestone ... we thought the time had come."
"It is all rather mysterious," I said.
Alison drew a deep breath and said: "Well, Judith . . ." Dorcas nodded to her to proceed. "Well, Judith, you have always been under the impression that you were the daughter of a cousin of ours."
"Yes, a distant one," I said.
"This is not the case."
I looked from one to the other. "Then who am I?"
"You're our adopted daughter."
"Yes, I know that, but if my parents are not the distant cousins, who are they?"
Neither of them spoke, and I cried out impatiently: "You said you came to tell me."
Alison cleared her throat. "You were on the train . . . the same train as Lavinia."
"In the accident?"
"Yes, you were in the accident ... a child of one year or so."
"My parents were killed then."
"It seems so."
"Who were they?"
Alison and Dorcas exchanged glances. Dorcas nodded slightly to Alison which meant: Tell her all.
"You were unharmed."
"And my parents killed?"
Alison nodded.
"But who were they?"
"They . . . they must have been killed outright. No one came forward to say who you were."
"Then I might be anybody!" I cried.
"So," went on Dorcas, "as we had lost a sister we adopted you."
"What would have happened to me if you hadn't?"
"Someone else would have done so perhaps."
I looked from one to the other and thought of all the kindness I had had from them and how I had plagued them —talking too much and too loudly, bringing mud into the house, breaking their prized crockery; and I ran to them and put my arms about them so that the three of us were in a huddle.
"Judith! Judith!" said Dorcas smiling, and the tears— which always came rather readily to her—glistened in her eyes.
Alison said: "You were a comfort to us. We needed comfort when Lavinia was gone."
"Well," I said, "it's nothing to cry about, is it? Perhaps I'm the long-lost heiress to a great estate. My parents have been searching high and low for me . . ."
Alison and Dorcas were smiling again. I had further food for my flights of fancy. "It's better than being a distant cousin anyway," I said. "But I do wonder who I was."
"It is clear that your parents were killed outright. It was such a ... violent disaster that we heard many people were unrecognizable. Papa went and identified poor Lavinia. He came back so upset."
"Why did you tell me that I came from distant cousins?"
"We thought it better, Judith. We thought you'd be happier believing yourself related to us."
"You're thinking I was unclaimed . . . unwanted, and that might have upset me and thrown a shadow over my childhood."
"There could have been so many explanations. Perhaps you only had your parents and no other relations. We thought that very likely."
"An orphan born of two orphans."
"That seems possible."
"Or perhaps your parents had just come to England."
"A foreigner. Perhaps I'm French, or Spanish. I am rather dark. My hair looks quite black by candlelight. My eyes are much lighter though, just ordinary brown. I do look rather like a Spaniard. But then lots of Cornish people do. That's because the Spaniards were wrecked along our coasts when we destroyed the Armada."
"Well, all ended well. You came to be as our very own and I can never tell you what a joy that has been for us."
"I don't know why you're looking so glum. It's rather exciting I think, not to know who you are. Just think what you might discover! I might have a sister or brother somewhere. Or grandparents. Perhaps they'll come and claim me and take me back to Spain. Senorita Judith. It sounds rather good. Mademoiselle Judith de . . . de Something. Just imagine going to see my long-lost family in their wonderful old chateau."