“Your Aunt Rebecca was as a mother to me,” she had told me. “I often wonder what would have happened to me if it had not been for Rebecca.” In those early days she had not known who her father was, and it was much later when she discovered that he was the well-known politician Benedict Lansdon and that she was Rebecca’s half sister.
Then, having learned of their relationship, she and Benedict Lansdon became very important to each other. She talked of him now and then; she would glow with pride and then be overcome by sadness, for one day when he was about to step into his carriage which was to take him to the House of Commons, he was shot and killed by an Irish terrorist. She had been with him when it had happened.
I tried to imagine what it must have been like to see one’s father killed, to see the life of a loved one snapped off suddenly. I believe she had never really recovered from it. And it had been the beginning of very bizarre troubles, through which she had to pass before she found happiness with my father.
She had been married before but she never talked of that, and I knew I must not ask. In fact, it was only rarely that she could bring herself to mention those days.
She did say once, “Sometimes it is almost worthwhile going through great tribulation, because when it is over you learn to appreciate what true happiness is, and you cherish it as perhaps people cannot who have never known the reverse.”
I was so happy that she had married my father and all that was behind her.
I said to her, “You have us now…my father…Charles and me.”
“I thank God for you all,” she said. “And Lucinda, I want you to be happy. I hope you will have children of your own one day and then you will know the joy they can bring.”
Perhaps closer to us than our own blood relations were the Denvers. Aunt Belinda and her daughter would arrive at any time, but sometimes their visit was preceded by a short note announcing their imminent arrival. I had heard Mrs. Cherry say that they treated the house like a hotel and she wondered madam allowed it, she did really.
I stayed in Hampshire now and then. They had a wonderful manor house and a large estate that Sir Robert, with his son’s help, took great pride in managing.
I always enjoyed my stays on the Caddington estate. I thought Caddington Manor was very exciting. It was considerably older than Marchlands and had been in existence since the Wars of the Roses. There had been a Denver there from the beginning. He did very well on the accession of Henry VII and had continued to prosper under the Tudors. Throughout the conflict the family had been staunchly Lancastrian, and all over the manor were carvings of the Red Rose on walls, fireplaces and staircases. I learned quite a lot about the Wars of the Roses after even my first visit to Caddington Manor.
The picture gallery was a source of great interest to me. Annabelinda shrugged me aside when I wanted to ask about the people portrayed there.
“They’re all dead,” she said. “I wish we could live in London. My father would never agree. That’s one thing he is firm about.”
“Well, you and your mother don’t let that stop your coming,” I said.
That made Annabelinda laugh. She had a mild toleration for her father and I think Aunt Belinda felt the same. He was the provider, the kindly, tolerant figure in the background whom they did not allow to interfere with their pleasures.
Robert was a little like his father, but none of them was more interested in the past than I was, and I shared this with Robert.
One of the most exciting aspects arising from our intimacy was Annabelinda’s fascinating French grandfather, Jean Pascal Bourdon.
He was quite different from anyone I had, as yet, known.
He was the brother of Aunt Celeste, who had a house near us in London and whom we visited frequently. She was an unassuming woman, who had married Benedict Lansdon after the death of my grandmother, and she had been his wife at the time of the murder. It was rather complicated—as I suppose such families are—but Celeste’s brother had been the father of Aunt Belinda. It had all been rather shocking, for Aunt Belinda’s mother had been a seamstress at the Bourdons’ house and the birth had been kept secret for years. It must have been exciting for Aunt Belinda when this was discovered. Knowing Annabelinda well, and her being so much like her mother, I felt I knew a good deal about Aunt Belinda. She must have been delighted to learn that she was the daughter of this most fascinating man.
Jean Pascal Bourdon was rich, sophisticated and totally different from anyone else we knew. He had taken an interest in Aunt Belinda when he had discovered she was his daughter, and it was at his château, near Bordeaux, that she had met Sir Robert Denver.
Jean Pascal’s interest was passed on to his granddaughter, and needless to say, Annabelinda was very impressed by him. She would spend a month or so with him, usually at the time of the wine harvest, and lately I had gone with her.
My mother did not greatly like my going. Nor did my Aunt Rebecca. But Annabelinda wanted me to go and Aunt Belinda said, “Why on earth shouldn’t she go? You can’t keep the child tied to your apron strings forever, Lucie. It’s time she saw something of the world. Bring her out of herself. She hasn’t got Annabelinda’s verve as it is.”
And in due course I went and became fascinated by the château, the mysterious grounds which surrounded it, the vineyards, the country and chiefly Monsieur Jean Pascal Bourdon himself.
Some two years before my tenth birthday, he had married a lady of mature years to match his own. She was of high rank in the French aristocracy—not that that meant a great deal nowadays, but at least it was a reminder of prerevolutionary glory. And the fact that he was married made my mother and Aunt Rebecca a little reconciled to my visits to France; the Princesse would make sure that the household was conducted with appropriate propriety. And after that, as a matter of course, I went with Annabelinda.
I looked forward to the visits. I loved to roam the grounds and sit by the lake watching the swans. My mother had told me of the black swan that had lived on that lake when she was young, and how it had terrorized everyone who approached close to the water. They had called him Diable, and his mate, who was as docile as he was fierce, had been named Ange.
I loved that story, for the swan had attempted to attack my mother and she had been saved by Jean Pascal.
I was always made welcome at the château. Jean Pascal used to talk to us as though we were grown up. Annabelinda loved that. He and the Princesse were the only people of whom she stood in awe.
One day when we had been sitting by the lake, Jean Pascal had come along; he sat beside me and talked. He told me how much he admired my mother. She had come to stay at the château with Aunt Belinda.
“It was her only visit,” he said. “She was always a little suspicious of me. Quite wrongly, of course. I was devoted to her. I was so delighted that she married your father. He was just the man for her. That first marriage…” He shook his head.
“She never talks about it,” I said.
“No. It’s best forgotten. That’s always a good idea. When something becomes unpleasant, that is the time to forget it. That’s what we should all do.”
“It’s not always easy to forget.”
“It takes practice,” he admitted.
“Have you practiced it throughout your life?”
“So much that I have become an adept at the art, little Lucinda. That is why you see me so content with life.”
He made me laugh, as he always did. He gave the impression that he was rather wicked and that, because of this, he understood other people’s foibles and did not judge them as harshly as some people might.