The Black Swan (44 page)

“To me?” he said. “I am going to die.”

“They are caring for you here, doing everything they can to save you.”

He shook his head. “What could they save me for? It is better so. …”

He lay back. His eyes were closed and there was a blue tinge about his mouth. I realized then what a great effort he had made to talk to me.

I sat watching him, thinking, he has given his life for me. He, the terrorist, who had planned to murder me in a most devious way, has saved me … with his own life. And all for love.

His lips were moving. His speech was slurred. It had been such a strain for him to talk but he had wanted to explain to me. He had not wanted me to discover through other means. And … he had wanted me to know how much he had cared for me.

What a strange life he must have had! He had given me a glimpse of his forceful family. His father the stern revolutionary … and Phillida who was made in the same mold.

She was a complex creature. She had appeared to be so kind to me, so friendly, always merry, a little insouciant, loving life. But how different she was in truth … setting herself a purpose, never diverging from it. I was to be her victim, and all the time she was professing affection she was planning to murder me.

When I thought of her now I remembered the black swan on the peaceful lake, and the sudden realization that he was waiting for me to come near to the lake before he attacked me. I had come too close to Phillida and she had marked me down for destruction.

The nurse had come in. She took one look at Roland and I understood that she was aware at once that talking to me had been too much for him.

I was hurriedly wheeled away and the doctors were coming in.

Roland died that night.

I spent only a week in the hospital in Bradford and a great deal happened during that time.

My whole life had changed.

It is a sobering experience to come close to death and to know that you owe your life to another person who had lost his own in saving yours.

For some time that thought was uppermost in my mind and I knew that there would be incidents in my life with Roland which I should never forget.

I had been fond of him; I had been fond of Phillida. She was a magnificent actress. I was thinking of her now as the Black Swan.

And Roland? It was hard to believe that in those early days he had been in the plot to murder me. How easily deceived I had been!

I lay in my hospital bed and conjured up images of what must have happened that night. Later I was able to verify that much of what I thought had taken place actually had. Perhaps it was logical that, being so close to it, I could see clearly what was inevitable.

When Phillida had seen Roland and me lying on the floor of the stable, covered in blood, her story must be that I, verging on insanity, had shot my husband and then myself. She must have been very shaken because she had killed her brother. I do not know if she ever really cared for any person. People who serve causes with such dedication rarely bestow great affection on individuals. This was, however, her brother. They had worked closely together. Perhaps she had some regard for him. But in her eyes he would have seemed a traitor. He had brought their scheme to an ignoble end. He had failed the cause—and all because he had fallen in love with me. I understood how a person such as she was would feel. Roland had failed her, himself and the cause. He had allowed his personal feelings to get the better of his duty.

But to see him lying there dead … or on the point of death … must have shocked her considerably. Otherwise she would not have been so careless. She put the gun in my hand but did not make sure that I was dead. I must have looked as though I were, with the blood all over me. It would have been unnerving because events had gone so differently from what had been planned.

A new suicide note was needed and that would have been her first concern—for how was she to know that it was in my pocket? It was not easy for her to produce the writing exactly like mine and she would obviously have to make several attempts.

It must have been while she was doing this that Mr. Hellman and his cowman arrived.

The cowman was immediately sent to get help. Thus a policeman and a doctor arrived from Bracken before Phillida had a chance to set the stage. They discovered Phillida’s notes … several of them … because she had not found it easy to imitate my handwriting. They also found the opera cloak and hat with the wig in my bedroom.

Then she learned that I was not dead as she had carelessly thought. In a short time I should be able to give my version; and it would not take long for it to be discovered that Phillida Fitzgerald was in fact Deirdre O’Neill, who in her own name was not unknown to the authorities; and there was the damning link with Fergus, the murderer of my father.

She had failed—after all the elaborate planning of months. She had killed her brother instead of me; and it could only be a matter of hours before she was arrested.

Her next action was typical of her. It may well have been that she had always known, in the kind of life she led, it might have been necessary at some time to take such an action.

She did the only thing that would have seemed possible to her. She took the gun and shot herself.

There followed the headlines. Everything was revived and we had to live through it all again. But it was a small price to pay for release. I was not seeing visions. I was not going mad. I was safe and this was the end of the nightmare which had begun when I had sat waiting for my father, and had looked out of the window and seen Fergus O’Neill waiting for the opportunity to kill him.

A week after Roland’s death, I came out of the Bradford hospital and was taken to London with Joel, Rebecca and Celeste.

Rebecca said, “As soon as you are well enough, I am going to take you to Cornwall. The quiet and peace of High Tor is what you need.”

I wanted to be with her. I wanted to tell her about Roland who had started by planning to murder me and had ended by saving my life.

I thought of him often … of the many kindnesses, the loving care he had given me. I believe he had truly loved me. Poor Roland, he had not been a strong man. He had been born into a family which lived by the gun. He had been brought up to hate; and such a man had made the supreme sacrifice for love.

It was wonderful to be in Cornwall. Rebecca took me back with her, and there was a very warm welcome for me from Pedrek and the children.

I loved the peace of the place which struck me afresh every morning when I awakened. There were, of course, times when I took a fearful look out of the window; then I would remind myself of the hat, the cloak and the wig as I had seen them lying on the bed in that room at Gray Stone House. The dreams came too … now and then; although even in those dreams the knowledge that that phase of my life was over was becoming more frequent.

Joel came down to Cornwall. We rode together. We went to Branok Pool and there I would think of Jenny Stubbs who—as Roland had—gave her life for mine. How strange that there should have been two people in my life who cared for me enough to do that.

Joel knew this spot and of its special significance for me.

He said to me as we stood there, looking over that eerie pool, “When I came back from Buganda we were to announce our engagement. Do you remember?”

Of course I remembered.

“Hasn’t there been too much delay?”

And I agreed that there had been.

A year after that terrible experience in the stables, Joel and I were married. It was a quiet wedding which was what we both wanted.

Belinda was present—safely married to Bobby now—and both immensely proud of their son and heir, young Robert.

I am deeply happy. I am putting the past right behind me, though there are still times when I dream of the black swan gliding so gracefully across the lake. Then he comes toward me and steps ashore—changed into a figure in an opera cloak and hat … and he takes off the hat and bows.

I awake in fear. But Joel is beside me. He takes me into his arms and says, “It’s all right, my love. I’m here, Lucie. There is nothing to fear anymore.”

And I can laugh at my folly, for I know, as time passes, the reality of the present will overcome the nightmare of the past and I shall cease to dream of the Black Swan.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Daughters of England series

I
FIRST MET CAL
Zimmerman in my father’s house in Westminster when I was eleven years old. I remember the occasion well. We were, in common with the whole of London—or the entire country for that matter—celebrating the coronation and new reign of the King and Queen.

The old King had died. He had been a colorful character in his day, especially as Prince of Wales. He had seemed to attract scandal which shocked the people—and the people love to be shocked. When he became King he appeared to be much more sober, but then, of course, he was much older.

I was born in the last year of the century—too young, as my mother had said, to remember the relief of Mafeking, though she had stood at the window of our London house with me in her arms looking down at the revelry in the streets below, and apparently I had appeared to be most amused.

The Prince of Wales had become Edward VII soon after that, on the death of his mother, the great Victoria, after which, I often heard, things were never the same again. Now Edward himself had passed on and we were welcoming his son, George, and George’s Queen Mary to be our new sovereigns.

My father, Joel Greenham, was the Member of Parliament for Marchlands, a constituency close to Epping Forest which had been represented by a Greenham since the days of George II—as a Whig in those days, and a Liberal since the party changed its name.

I was accustomed to gatherings, for we entertained frequently, both at Westminster and Marchlands, where we had a delightful house which I loved. Here, in London, the parties we gave were mostly political, and the guests were quite important well-known people whom I enjoyed meeting when I had the chance. It was different in the country, where the guests would be neighboring landowners and such like. They were more cozy.

My presence at the London parties was a secret one. I would be on the second floor, close to the banisters where I could get a good view and still be able to draw back quickly if anyone should chance to look up. My parents knew I was there. They would sometimes look up and lift a hand surreptitiously to let me know they were aware of my presence. Robert Denver knew, too, but then he was like a member of the family.

There had always been close ties between us and the Denvers. My mother and Lady Denver had been brought up together in their early days; then Lady Denver, whom I called Aunt Belinda, had gone to Australia for some years and when she returned and married Sir Robert Denver, the relationship had been resumed. Aunt Belinda had two children. One was Robert, the other Annabelinda. Both were very important to me.

Robert was about five years older than I, and one of the nicest people I had ever known. He was tall and lean; he had rather a disjointed look which was somehow endearing, as though, said his sister, Annabelinda, he had been put together in a hurry and some parts had not fitted very well. He had a gentle nature and I had loved him from the first moment I knew him.

Annabelinda was two years older than I and not in the least like her brother; she was disturbing, unpredictable and immensely exciting.

“Annabelinda takes after her mother,” I had heard my own mother say on more than one occasion.

They had an estate in the country and when they came to London they stayed with us. Robert was going to take over the estate in time, and he and his father were not such frequent visitors as Annabelinda and her mother. Those two much preferred London to the country.

On this occasion the whole family was with us. Sir Robert and Aunt Belinda and Robert were guests at the party. Annabelinda was with us on the stairs. She was a beauty already with deep-blue eyes, thick black hair and beautifully smooth, pale skin; she was full of vitality and outrageously adventurous. I could imagine that Aunt Belinda had been exactly like her in her youth and that she had plagued my mother as Annabelinda now plagued me.

“You must not let Annabelinda rule you,” said my mother. “Make your own judgments. Don’t let her lead you. She could be overpowering…just like her mother,” she added reminiscently.

I knew what she meant and determined to follow her advice.

On this occasion, after Miss Grant, my governess, had sat with us while we drank our milk as we did every evening, Annabelinda had given vent to her annoyance.

“It’s all very well for you, Lucinda,” she said. “You are, after all, only eleven years old. I am thirteen and still treated like a child.”

“We can see them all arrive. That’s fun, isn’t it, Charles?” I said to my younger brother.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “And when they have all gone into the dining room, we creep downstairs and wait in the cubbyhole till Robert brings us gorgeous things to eat.”

“Annabelinda knows all that,” I said. “She’s been with us at other times.”