The Black Swan (33 page)

“Oh, I’m sure of it. It’s true. You don’t think I would have said so if it wasn’t, do you?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I do.”

“Well, what else?”

“I pointed out to him that if you went back to him, it wouldn’t be much of a life for him … and he agreed.”

“Oh, Lucie, you really are wonderful.”

“I’ve not finished yet. He’s only agreed to think about it.”

“Oh, but he’ll do it. He will. He must. What did you think of him?”

“A bit … rough … but good underneath. A nice man. I thought he didn’t deserve you.”

“No. He didn’t really. Poor old Henry. Do you really think …?”

“All I can say is he promised to think about it.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. But I shall be seeing him tomorrow.”

“Oh good …
good
! And to think you might have been burned to death!”

“What a calamity—for then I shouldn’t have been able to arrange your affairs!”

“I didn’t mean it that way!”

“It was the first thought that occurred to you. However, I escaped and lived to see Mr. Henry Farrell.”

She hugged me fiercely.

I thought, how different from Phillida! How different from Roland! They really care for me. But, as I had said many times before, this was Belinda.

I really was amazed at my success. It was because at heart Henry Farrell was really a very good man.

I think it was the matter of the child which really swayed him. He was hurt and angry but he was shrewd enough to see that there could be no real happiness with Belinda.

When I met him the next day in the lounge of the Bayswater hotel, he was waiting for me and he looked quite pleased to see me.

He did not tell me immediately what he intended to do, but I think I knew it from the start. He wanted to tease me a little at first; and I think he wanted to listen to further advocacy on my part.

I pleaded as I had before, bringing out the same arguments. He listened patiently and after a while he said, “How should we go about the divorce?”

I told him I did not know, but I would find out.

“Everything would be taken good care of,” I said.

“Then I suppose she’d marry this lordship again.”

“She will marry Sir Robert Denver.”

“Does he agree to this?”

“I don’t think he knows about it yet.”

“What?”

“She has to tell him.”

“What if he says no?”

“I can’t believe he will.”

“Mad about her, is he?”

“I think so.”

I had a moment of uneasiness then. I could see the memories in his eyes. Belinda had a powerful effect on men. There was Bobby who adored her and this young man had come from the other side of the world to pursue her.

I realized how fortunate I had been to be able to plead with him, for he was still hankering after her.

But he was no fool. He saw the point. The best way for everyone concerned was to end the marriage so that they could get on with their own lives.

When we parted I had his promise that he would begin divorce proceedings against Belinda. The case would be undefended and with luck might not find its way into the newspapers.

Belinda was waiting for me when I returned triumphant.

“He’s going to do it,” I told her.

“You’re marvelous. I knew you could do it. Oh, Lucie, you were always my best friend.”

“Don’t forget this is only the beginning. The first thing you have to do is talk to Bobby.”

“I know,” she said gloomily.

“Then I think you should go back to him. If he lets you stay there that will make a blatant case of adultery. Let’s hope it can be kept quiet. It could be rather awkward for you, but you have to be prepared for that. After all, it is a small price to pay for all your misdemeanors.”

“I’ll do it, Lucie. I’ll go back right away. I’ll tell Bobby everything.”

“Let’s hope he will be as forgiving and indulgent as you think he will be.”

“Of course he will be. He adores me.”

Her gloom had completely vanished. Once again she was on the point of manipulating the lives of others to suit her purpose.

She left that day; and I spent another day and night in Welling Gardens.

Then Roland and I went back to Manorleigh.

Phillida vociferously expressed her pleasure at seeing us.

“Anyone would think we had been away for at least a month,” said Roland.

“I missed you so much. Both away at the same time! It’s wonderful to have you back. I want you to see your room. It looks quite different. Roland … Lucie has told you …” Her mood changed from joy to horror.

“Yes,” I said. “I told him about the fire.”

She turned to him, anguish in her eyes. “I think I should have died … if anything had happened. …”

“But it didn’t,” I said.

“It might have. Imagine it, Roland. …”

“I am imagining it,” said Roland. “It doesn’t bear thinking of. But you must not be upset. It’s over. It didn’t happen. We were so lucky. Now let us have a look at the room.”

It did look different without the four-poster bed. It had been replaced by one in the Regency style and was plain in comparison with its predecessor; but it was very attractive and elegant.

“It makes the room look quite different,” I said.

“Less cluttered,” added Roland. “Well done, Phillida, it was a good choice.”

“I never want to see another bed curtain,” announced Phillida. She shivered. “They will always remind me.”

Roland put his arm through hers. “Stop brooding,” he commanded.

“I’m trying to, Roland.”

It was good to be home, and I was rather proud of the manner in which I had managed Belinda’s affairs.

I dismissed her from my mind. I need not think of her for a while and could devote myself to an existence which had become very pleasant to me.

The peaceful atmosphere was disturbed when, the following morning, Mrs. Emery invited me to her room. I guessed there was trouble ahead when she brought out the canister of Darjeeling tea.

I soon heard what it was.

“The last thing I want to do, Miss Lucie, is speak out of turn,” she began, and proceeded immediately to do so. “I know she is the sister … but that’s a very different matter than being the mistress of the house, and it seems to me—and Emery is with me in this—that at times it would seem she thinks of herself as mistress of the house.”

“I am sure she does not, Mrs. Emery.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure she does.”

“What is worrying you, then?”

“About this bed. She carries on for all the world as though this is her place. I said to Emery, I said, ‘Is it for her to choose this bed? Is it for her to decide to get rid of the old one?’ That was a fine bed, that was. It’s been there since the year dot. I reckon it was worth a pretty penny. Yet she had it taken away. Goodness knows where it is now.”

“It was ruined by the fire and all that water which was poured on it.”

“Ruined, me foot. I reckon it could have been put right.”

“She was so upset about the fire, Mrs. Emery. She wanted to get rid of everything that would remind us. She had a point.”

“I should have thought it would be for the mistress of the house, Miss Lucie. Neither Mr. Emery nor I would say, ‘this has to go,’ or ‘that has to stay.’ That’s for the mistress. That’s what I don’t like. ‘What next?’ I say to Mr. Emery, and he just looks and me and says, ‘Aye, what next?’”

“Well there won’t be any more beds to be got rid of, I hope. Mr. Fitzgerald and I are very satisfied with the replacement.”

“Well, that’s as may be. But it don’t seem right to me. But if you say so. And there’s something else.”

“Oh? What?”

“Well, prowling about. She’s been in the attic looking at the trunks and things …”

“It’s an ancient house and it fascinates her, Mrs. Emery. She will be living here with us, you know, so it will be her home.”

“Well, frankly, that’s what I’m afraid of, Miss Lucie. Two ladies as mistress … it don’t seem to work somehow.”

“Oh, it will, because she’s my sister-in-law and really a great friend of mind. I think she would be surprised if she thought she had given offense to you.”

“Well, all I wanted to say is that it wasn’t only being in the attics. She’s been prowling about the gardens … taking a rare interest in everything, talking to the servants … asking them questions about the ghost.”

“Did they mind?”

“Not them! They like that sort of thing. Makes them feel important. They seem to think something of her. But, of course, they’re an empty-headed lot, most of them. No thought for the house. But if you say it’s all right … What I don’t like is to see someone quiet and gentle being taken advantage of.”

“It’s kind of you, Mrs. Emery, but I don’t think that is what she intends. I am sure she would be very upset if she knew you were offended.”

Mrs. Emery nodded in silence, but I could see by the vigorous manner in which she stirred her Darjeeling, that she did not agree with me.

A few days passed. I was wondering how Belinda was getting on. I imagined all must be going smoothly, otherwise I should have heard, for if she were succeeding she would forget all about me. It was only if she needed help that she would remember.

I pictured her confessing to the complaisant Bobby. I was sure he would fall in with her wishes. They would employ the best lawyers and if Henry Farrell really would set the divorce in motion, there might not be too much delay.

I hoped it could be completed with speed and secrecy before the child was born.

It was difficult to imagine Belinda as a mother, but people often surprise one—particularly in this respect.

It had been a pleasant day. It was about a week after I had returned and we had slipped back into the old routine. I was always wondering when Roland would have to go back to London, for I supposed these visits would become a part of our daily lives. He had talked a little about the wool trade which was carried on in Yorkshire. I supposed I should accompany him when he went up North, which I realized he would have to do more frequently than he had been doing of late.

We had loitered at the table over dinner. We had been recalling our stay in France, and Phillida enlivened the conversation with her versions of one or two incidents which had befallen her. She told them in a breezy manner and they were usually concerned with some gaffe of hers.

We laughed a good deal, remembering.

Afterward we sat in the drawing room, talking idly. Phillida left first and said she was going to bed. Roland and I went up soon afterward.

It had been a rather chilly evening and Mrs. Emery always ordered a fire to be lighted in the room when the temperature dropped a little. Now it gave a cozy aspect, throwing firelit shadows on the walls.

“I think Phillida is getting over the shock of the fire, don’t you, Roland?” I said.

“Oh, I do. But she really was very upset. She is so fond of you. As a matter of fact, I have not seen her so disturbed since our parents died. I don’t think she will ever really forget while she’s here. She doesn’t ever come into this room, does she?”

“I don’t think she does.”

“How do
you
feel about it?”

“Well, I suppose I’ve forgotten for the most part. It was over so quickly. I just woke … saw the flames … and within half an hour the fire was out. Besides, it looks different here now.”

“I wish Phillida was not so … excitable.”

“It’s part of her charm. She is always so full of enthusiasm and energy. Everything she does and says has to be with that exuberance. She enjoys life.”

“And for that reason she can sometimes be too deeply affected by it.”

Roland was in bed watching me. The last thing I did before joining him was draw back the curtains because we both liked to awake to daylight.

As I pulled them back I gazed down, as I always did, at the seat under the oak tree. As I did so, a great shock ran through me. Someone was on the seat. I saw him clearly in the light of the stars and that which came from our lighted room.

He rose from the seat. He was wearing an opera hat and cloak. I stood there, as though petrified … unable to speak … unable to move. And as I did so he took off his hat and bowed. He looked straight at me. I could see clearly the widow’s peak on his forehead.

It was the same man whom I had seen from my window in the London house. It was my father’s murderer whom I had helped to send to the gallows.

I heard Roland’s voice. “Lucie … Lucie … what’s wrong?”

I turned away from the window, sank into a chair and covered my face with my hands.

Roland was beside me. “What is it, Lucie? What’s me matter?”

“It … it’s down there.”

He went to the window.

“What … what is down there? What has frightened you?”

I got up and stood beside him. There was no one below.

“I saw him … I saw him clearly. He was … just as he had been outside the house in London. It was Fergus O’Neill.”

“Fergus O’Neill,” he repeated the name blankly.

“The man who killed my father.”

“Lucie, be calm. Tell me exactly what you saw. Who was it you thought you saw down there?”

“It was Fergus O’Neill,” I repeated. “I gave evidence against him. I saw him before he killed my father. He was waiting outside the house for him … I looked down and saw him the night before … and when he killed my father I recognized him.”

“Lucie, let’s try to see what this is all about. How could he be there? He was hanged, wasn’t he?”

I nodded.

“You think it was …?”

“I think he has come back to haunt me.”

“Oh no! You imagined it.”

“I didn’t. I saw him clearly. I wasn’t thinking of him. Why should I imagine him … now … here?”

“Come to bed. You’re all right now. There’s nothing to be afraid of here … with me.”

I lay in his arms while he talked to me, lovingly, soothingly. I poured out my fears to him, how I was afraid that I had condemned the wrong man. That was when I had seen him almost immediately afterward, standing in the street where I had seen him the night before he killed my father. It had worried me a great deal at the time, and then I had convinced myself that I was being foolish. Rebecca had said that I imagined I saw him and I had begun to believe her. But he was the man. There was no doubt of it. There was the distinctive way in which his hair grew …