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.