Sometimes I wished that I had been born anyone but Harriet Delvaney. When Fanny took me into the park and I saw other children, I always envied them. I envied almost everybody—even the dirty children of the man with the barrel organ, who used to stand beside him looking pitiful while the little brown monkey held out the red cap for pennies. Everybody, I thought in those days, was more fortunate than Harriet Delvaney.
I had been told by several nannies under whom Fanny had served that I was a bad, wicked girl. I had a good home, plenty to eat a kind father, a good nanny, and I was not satisfied.
I did not walk until I was four years old. I was taken to doctors who meddled with my legs and had long discussions about what was to be done and shook their heads over me. I was given this treatment and that; my father used to come and look at me, and there was something in his eyes which told me he would rather look at anything than at me, but he forced himself to pretend he liked doing it.
I remember one day when I was hi the garden of my Aunt Clarissa’s house near Regent’s Park. It was strawberry time, and we had been eating the fruit with sugar and cream near the summerhouse. All the women had parasols and big shady hats to protect their complexions, and because it was Phyllis’s birthday there were several children on the lawn and they were running about playing together. I was seated on my chair with my offending, hateful legs stretched out before me. I had come in the carriage and been carried into the garden by one of the footmen and placed hi the chair where I might watch the other children.
I heard Aunt Clarissa’s voice: “Not a very pleasant child. I suppose one must make excuses …”
I did not understand what she meant, although I stored up the remark to ponder on later; when I think of that day I remember the scent of strawberries; the delicious mingling of fruit, sugar and cream, and legs … the strong legs of other children.
I can still recall the great determination which came to me as I almost fell out of the chair and stood on my own legs and walked.
It was a miracle, said the kind ones. Others thought I could have done it before and had been pretending all the time. The doctors were astonished.
I could only totter at first; but from that day I walked. I do not know whether I could have walked before or not; all I can remember is that sudden sense of determination and of gratifying power as I tottered toward those children.
I gradually learned my pathetic little story, mostly from the servants who had worked hi the house before my birth.
“She was too old to have children. Could you wonder … Having Miss Harriet killed her. Operation … Them instruments … Well, it’s dangerous. Lost her and saved the child. But there’s her with that leg. As for him … he was never the same again. Idolized her … Of course, they’d only been married a year or two. Whether it ‘ud have lasted, him being what he is … No wonder he can’t abide the child, though. Now, if she’d been like Miss Phyllis or one of her cousins … Makes you think, don’t it? Money ain’t everything.”
There was my story in those few words. Sometimes I imagined that I was” a saint who went about the world doing good and everyone loved me. They said: “Well, she’s no beauty, but one must make excuses and she’s very good.”
But I wasn’t good. I was jealous of my cousins with their pretty pink faces and their silky, golden hair; I was angry with my father who couldn’t abide me because my coming into the world sent my mother out of it. I was difficult with the servants because I was sorry for myself.
The only people with whom I felt I could be humble and perhaps learn to be good were the Menfreys; it was not that they took much notice of me, but to me they were the Magic Menfreys, living in the most exciting house I had ever seen, perched on the cliffs opposite No Man’s Island, which belonged to them and about which there was a story I had yet to discover. Our house was the nearest to theirs—much more modern—a mansion in which my father could entertain and look after the constituency. The Menfreys were his great friends. “They must be cultivated,” I had heard him say to his secretary William Lister. “They carry great influence in the constituency.” So the Menfreys were to be tended like, flowers in the greenhouse.
And it was only necessary to look at them—all of them— to believe in their influence. William Lister had said that they were larger than life. It was the first time I had heard the phrase, and it fitted well.
The family were very ready to be friendly with us; they worked for father during the elections; they entertained him, and he entertained them. They were the lords of the district, and when Sir Endelion told his tenants to vote, they voted and for the candidate he favored; if not, they need not expect to remain his tenants.
When we went to Cornwall some of the servants accompanied us, while Mrs. Trant and Polden stayed in London with a skeleton staff; Miss James, Nanny and Fanny, among others, came with us; and in Cornwall we had a resident butler and housekeeper—husband and wife, the A’Lees — who went with the furnished house we rented, which was very convenient.
I was allowed to go to tea at Menfreya, and Gwennan came to have tea with me at Chough Towers. She would ride over with one of the grooms from Menfreya, and it was during one of these visits that I learned to ride and discovered that I was happier in the saddle than anywhere else because then my defect was unimportant; I felt normal on horseback. The nearest I had ever been to complete pleasure was riding along those Cornish lanes, uphill, downhill, and I never grew in the least blase in my appreciation of the scenery. I always caught my breath in wonder when, reaching the top of a steep hill, I had a sudden glimpse of the sea.
I envied Gwennan for living permanently in such a place. She liked to hear about London, and I enjoyed telling her. In return I made her talk about Menfreya and the Menfreys, but most of all about Bevil.
As I stood in front of my mirror after the encounter with Aunt Clarissa on the stairs, I started to think of Menfreya with a longing which went so deep that it was like a pain.
I was leaning over the banisters. There was music in the front drawing room, but it was almost drowned by the hum of voices and the sudden bursts of laughter. It was as though the house had come to life; it was no longer cold; all these voices, all this laughter changed it.
I was in my flannelette nightgown with a red twill dressing gown over it; my feet were bare, for slippers could betray with the padding sound they made. It was not that any of the servants would have scolded me for peeping over the banisters, but that I liked to pretend I was not the least bit interested in my father’s entertainments.
Sometimes I dreamed that he sent for me and that I went limping into the room. The Prime Minister was there and he talked to me; he and everyone was astonished by my wit and understanding. My father’s eyes were warm and sparkling because he was so proud of me.
What a foolish dream!
That night, as I leaned against the banisters sniffing the beeswax and turpentine with which they were polished, I overheard the conversation between Aunt Clarissa and a man who was a stranger to me. They were talking about my father.
“Quite brilliant…”
“The P.M. seemed to think so.”
“Oh, yes. Sir Edward’s heading for the Cabinet. Mark my words.”
“Dear Edward.” That was Aunt Clarissa, “He deserves a little luck.”
“Luck! I should have thought he had had his share. He must be an extremely wealthy man.”
“He has never been happy since his wife died.”
“He has been a widower now for many years, has he not? A wife would have been useful to him. I wonder … he didn’t marry again.”