Authors: Philippa Carr
I was allowed to sit with the family for luncheon.
“I shall have Angelet beside me,” declared Uncle Peter. He had great charm and an endearing way with him. It was small wonder that innocents like myself admired him.
He did most of the talking. He seemed to have, as was once said of him, “a finger in many pies.” I was not sure at that time what his business was, but I knew that it was highly profitable and made him very rich. Later I learned that he owned several clubs of somewhat dubious reputation, but in his view these were a necessity for the community. It kept certain persons from committing misdemeanors which could be a menace to society so he was doing a great service to the country. Amaryllis believed this absolutely, though there had been a great scandal about his activities at one time and through it he had lost his place in Parliament. Even he had to compromise in some way, for he had to content himself with being outside the main action and give himself up to guiding Matthew in the way he wanted him to go. I thought of Matthew as the puppet and Uncle Peter as the puppet master.
It was not only Matthew whom he manipulated. I was sure Uncle Peter made a number of people do what he wanted.
It was gratifying and made me feel important to be selected to sit beside him.
The talk was of the folly of John Russell who was the Prime Minister and a Whig; and as Uncle Peter was a Tory, he had nothing but contempt for Little John, as he called him.
The Exhibition was discussed at great length.
“You are looking forward to seeing the opening, are you not, Angelet?” he asked, turning to me.
I assured him that indeed I was.
“It will be something to remember all your life. It is an historic occasion.”
“I understand the Queen is opening it,” said my mother.
“But of course. Her diminutive Majesty dotes on the idea. And why? Because it was Albert’s brainchild. Therefore in her eyes it must be perfect.”
“Is it not wonderful to see how happy they are?” said Aunt Amaryllis. “They set such a good example to the nation.”
“There are the occasional storms, I believe, my dear,” said Uncle Peter. “But I fancy Albert usually comes out best in these encounters which says something for his wisdom … or is it his pretty appearance?”
“Oh Peter!” said Aunt Amaryllis, half scolding, half admiring.
“At least,” put in Matthew, “the whole project is nearing completion and all should be well.”
“Little John will do his best to make difficulties,” said Uncle Peter. “What’s his latest, Matthew?”
“He wants the salute of guns fired in St James’s Park. He says if they are let off in Hyde Park they may shatter the glass of the dome.”
“And will they?” asked my mother.
“Of course not,” retorted Uncle Peter. “It is just that he wants to put in his spoke and cause a little trouble.”
“I believe Albert is going to stand out against him,” said Matthew.
“What if it does shatter the dome?” I asked.
“My dear Angelet,” said Uncle Peter, beaming at me, “then Albert will be proved wrong and Little Johnny right.”
“Isn’t it a risk?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think Albert will give way on this matter. Don’t look so glum, I doubt it will happen, and I feel sure the crystal dome will remain intact, and if it does not … well, then I say … what a to-do!”
“It seems rather silly to risk it,” I said. “It would be awful if it were spoilt after all this fuss.”
“Life, dear child, is full of risks. Sometimes it pays to take them. If the Prince gave way on this we should have Little Johnny raising other objections. Albert can’t admit he’s wrong … so he takes this little risk.”
I was thoughtful considering this and I saw Uncle Peter’s amused glance on me.
He went on to talk of the beautiful Exhibition and how the Prince had thought of it as a festival of Work and Peace. How much better for nations to mingle in friendship, to show their achievements in technology than facing each other on a battlefield. Art and Commerce should stand side by side.
The great day dawned. How fortunate we were to be of a party which could attend the opening. For the first time I saw the Queen. She looked magnificent in pink and silver; across her breast was the garter ribbon and on her head a small crown in which the Koh-i-Noor diamond glistened. I caught my breath in wonder. I had never seen such a beautiful vision. I was so proud as I joined in the cheers as she arrived in her carriage, two feathers waving gently on her head attached in some way to the crown. She looked proud, happy and completely regal, everything that a queen ought to look.
It was a wonderful day. It had lived completely up to my expectations. The music was splendid. I loved the Hallelujah Chorus. The Queen and her husband were on the royal dais and sat under a blue and gold canopy. I could not take my eyes from her. In my mind I was there. I was Victoria—the proud wife, the wise mother, the great Queen—an example to the nation. I was very contented.
It was an exhausting day. There was so much to see; I found the displays of workmanship, the efforts of all the countries to send of their best, and the famous people like the Duke of Wellington, very interesting. But nothing could compare with the sight of our little Queen, so radiantly happy, so human, yet very much the Queen. I loved her from that moment and it was the memory of her which would remain in my mind as the most thrilling spectacle of that day.
There was talk of nothing else but the Exhibition. We discussed it endlessly.
Aunt Amaryllis said: “Of course you will go again before you return to Cornwall.”
My mother said we must.
“Will the Queen be there?” I asked.
“It would not surprise me,” replied Uncle Peter. “This is Albert’s conception and therefore in her eyes must be perfect.”
“They fired the guns in Hyde Park,” I said, “and they did not shatter the glass dome.”
“You remembered that, did you?” said Uncle Peter smiling.
“Well, it was important.”
“And a bit of a risk. But didn’t I tell you that risks have to be taken … and if you are bold they will work out in your favor.”
We retired that night; and as soon as I lay down I was into a beautiful sleep of happy jumbled dreams … myself in pink and silver walking majestically up to the royal dais, everyone cheering me. It was a beautiful dream.
It happened the following day.
We were at luncheon, Matthew was there again—he was a very constant visitor—being coached in the way he must act in Parliament, I supposed.
We were still talking about the Exhibition and were on the last course when there was a quiet knock on the door and Janson, the butler, appeared.
He gave a discreet little cough and said: “There is a young gentleman to see you, sir.”
“A gentleman? Can’t he wait until after luncheon, Janson?”
“He said it was important, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“He calls himself a Mr. Benedict Lansdon, sir.”
Uncle Peter sat very still for a few seconds. It was hardly noticeable but I was watching him closely and I thought he was a little disturbed.
He half rose in his chair and then sat down again.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, very well, Janson, I’ll see him. Ask him to wait.”
Janson went out and Uncle Peter looked at Aunt Amaryllis.
She said, “Who is it, Peter? The name …”
“It could be some long lost relative. I’ll sort it out … if you’ll all excuse me.”
When he went out the chatter began.
“I wonder who it is,” said Matthew. “It must be someone in the family. That name …”
“How exciting,” I said.
My mother smiled at me but said nothing.
We had finished luncheon so we rose. Uncle Peter, I gathered, was still closeted in his study with the visitor.
It is so frustrating to be young and have things kept from you. That there was an enormous mystery about Benedict Lansdon, I had no doubt. My father and mother talked of him in hushed whispers. Aunt Amaryllis looked a little dazed. I heard Matthew say to my father that he hoped it wouldn’t “get about.”
I wondered what that meant.
I listened; I watched; and gradually I began to learn the truth.
Benedict was Uncle Peter’s grandson. He had been born in Australia fifteen years ago. His father was Uncle Peter’s son. Uncle Peter had been married only once and that was to Aunt Amaryllis, but that did not prevent his having a son of whom Amaryllis, until this moment, had never heard.
I listened to my mother talking of it to my father. She said: “He passed it off as you would expect him to. A youthful misdemeanor … before he met Amaryllis, of course.”
So Benedict was the result of a youthful misdemeanor.
It was from Benedict that I heard more of the story than I could get from anyone else. He and I were immediately attracted to each other. I to him because he was different from anyone I had previously known and he to me perhaps because I so blatantly admired him.
He was tall for his age; he had very blue eyes which were startling in his bronzed face; his hair was very fair, bleached by the fierce sun of the Antipodes. He had an air of insouciance as Uncle Peter had, but it was almost a swagger in Benedict; I thought Uncle Peter would have been very like him when he was his age. There was a look of amusement as though he saw the world as something made for his advancement and benefit. It was a look I had noticed in Uncle Peter. There could be no doubt of the relationship between them.
The house in the square had only a small garden. It had paving stones and rather stunted bushes and a pear tree which produced very hard pears. Aunt Amaryllis had had pots put in with flowering shrubs and there was a rustic seat.
It was in this garden that I had my first meeting with Benedict.
“Hello,” he said. “You’re a cute little girl. Who are you?”
“I’m Angelet. Some people call me Angel which is misleading.”
“I hope it is,” he replied. “I’d be rather scared of an angel.”
“I don’t think you would ever be scared of anything.”
That was how I felt about him; and he liked to hear it. His blue eyes shone with pleasure. “I’m not scared of much,” he admitted. “But angels do have a habit of recording people’s sins.”
“Have you committed many?”
He nodded conspiratorially and I laughed.
I said: “Who are you?”
“Benedict Lansdon. Call me Ben.”
“Ben suits you better. Benedict sounds a little holy … like a monk or a saint or something.”
“I fear I should never be one of those.”
“Ben’s much more suitable.”
“They call me Ben way back.”
“Why are you here?”
“To see my grandfather.”
“Uncle Peter?”
“Oh, he’s your uncle, is he?”
“No, not really. They call people uncle when they don’t know what else to call them. He’s just married to my Aunt Amaryllis, but she’s not my real aunt either. It really is one of those relationships which are too complicated to explain to people.”
“Well, mine is not a bit complicated. He really is my grandfather.”
“But there’s something odd about it. He didn’t seem to know he had you for a grandson until you came here to tell him.”
“Not odd really. All very natural. People sometimes have children they don’t intend to. It takes them by surprise, so to speak, and then what are they going to do with them? That’s what happened to my grandmother and your Uncle Peter.”
“I see.”
“And she then went to Australia. He paid for her and sent her money for as long as she lived. My father was born. He was called Peter Lansdon after his father … Peter Lansdon Carter in fact but the Carter was dropped. My grandmother never married but my father did, and they had me. That’s how I come to be your Uncle Peter’s grandson. My grandmother was always talking about England and what a fine fellow my grandfather was. Once there was something in the papers about him. It was not very good, but she laughed over it, and said there was no one like him. When she died we lost touch with him, but he was often spoken of. My mother died and there was just my father and me. We had a small property but it was hard going. The land wasn’t good … too dry and there always seemed to be droughts … and then there were pests … locusts and that sort of thing. When my father knew he was dying he used to talk to me about the future. He knew someone who’d buy the property. He wanted me to go to England and find my grandfather. ‘You’ll find him easily,’ he said. ‘He’s a well known gentleman.’ And when he went I thought I’d like to see England, so I sold up and came.”
“That was a very brave thing to do.”
“I don’t look at it like that. I just wanted to come.”
“What will you do now?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Have to see which way the wind blows.”
“I hope it blows in the right direction.”
He gave me a confident smile. “I’ll see it does,” he said.
“I am sure you will.”
We smiled at each other and I had an idea that he liked me as much as I liked him.
I said: “My grandfather went to Australia.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. First he went as a convict.”
“Never!”
“Oh yes. Seven years’ transportation for killing a man.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It was very extraordinary. He joined the gypsies and became one of them although he had been brought up at Cador. You’ll come to see Cador, won’t you? It’s a wonderful place. It was in the Cadorson family for generations.”
“One of those old places, eh?”
“It’s my home.”
“Tell me about your grandfather.”
“Well, he went off with the gypsies and a man who called himself a gentleman attacked a gypsy girl. My grandfather stopped him and in doing so, killed him. It was said to be murder and he was sent to Australia for seven years.”
“A light sentence for murder.”
“It wasn’t really murder. It was a righteous killing. And my grandmother, who was a little girl then, saved him, or she made her father do so. My grandfather served his term, prospered out there and when he came back to England, he and my grandmother were married.”
“A happy ending then.”
“At first. They had my uncle Jacco and my mother and were very happy, but they all went out to Australia and they were drowned there … all but my mother. She was the only one left because by chance she hadn’t gone sailing with them that day.”