My Sister Celia (6 page)

Freda, however, would have been superhuman not to feel a tremor of apprehension as she walked up the tiled path to the Vanners
’
intimidatingly handsome house later that evening, and she found that her breath was coming uncomfortably fast.

The maid who opened the door in answer to her knock gave a gratifying gasp of astonishment. This served to restore Freda
’
s courage somewhat. For, if so much were to depend on no more than the actual likeness to Celia, it was just as well that it should be a likeness to shake the most casual observer.

“Please come this way, miss,” the maid said. And she led Freda through a pleasant square hall into a garden room at the back of the house. “I
’
ll tell Mrs. Vanner that you
’
re here.”

Evidently it was Mrs. Vanner who took the initiative, Freda noted, and possibly it would be she who would come to ask the first questions. But when the door opened again, a few moments later, two people came into the room.

For some reason or other, Freda expected the Vanners to be quite elderly. But, although Mr. Vanner was grey-haired and might be verging on a distinguished sixty, Mrs. Vanner could have passed for forty-five anywhere, and certainly did not look old enough to be Brian
’
s mother.

She was good-looking, in a forceful sort of way, and, if she was startled at Freda
’
s likeness to her adopted daughter, she concealed the fact better than her maid had done. It was she, as Freda expected, who took the initiative. And, although she did not shake hands, she said quite pleasantly,

“Good evening, Miss—Mersham. Please sit down.”

Freda sat down, and tried to remind herself that she was there by invitation, and with no purpose whatever but to settle the truth. In consequence, she unknowingly adopted the best line possible. She waited, in courteous silence, for the Vanners to say the first words.

It was not, perhaps, what Mrs. Vanner had expected. But, after a moment, she said, rather coolly,

“
This is an extraordinary story that my daughter brought home last night, Miss Mersham. You must not be surprised if we find it very difficult to accept—entirely without proof, as it is.”

“I’m not
surprised at all,” Freda replied. “I find it difficult to accept myself. But the likeness is even more difficult to explain away.”

“It
’
s an astounding likeness,” agreed Mr. Vanner, speaking for the first time and not, Freda thought to his wife
’
s pleasure.

She make a quick gesture of s
omething like
dissent.

“These inexplicable likenesses do occur someti
m
es between people who are absolutely unconnected,
”
she said impatiently.

“But there is the fact
that I did have a twin sister called Celia,” Freda pointed out.

“We have—you must forgive me for saying this—only your word for that,” Mrs. Vanner replied.

Yes, of course,” Freda agreed coldly, but with dignity. “You have only my word for that,
e
nough I suppose, if you went back into the billeting records at Crowmain—the village to which we were both evacuated during the war—there might be some entry to show there were two of us.”

“Yes, that
’
s possible,” agreed Mr. Vanner. And again Freda had the impression that his wife wished he would leave the matter to her handling.

“I doubt
if there are any such records at this date
,”
she exclaimed impatiently. “In any case, I
should tell
you right away, Miss Mersham, that there is one fact in our possession which makes your claim quite untenable, in spite of the remarkable likeness.”

“And what is that?” enquired Freda, suppressing with difficulty the angry impulse to point out that
she
had made no claim. The claim had been made, most eagerly, on her behalf by their own adopted daughter.

“We have never discussed with Celia any of the meager information we had about her when we
adopted her,” Mrs. Vanner explained. “And she was therefore unaware even of her name before we had her. But this, of course, was known to us at the time. It was not Mersham.
”

“It was
not
?” Freda was completely taken aback. “What—what was it, then?”

“I don
’
t think it would serve any useful purpose to tell you.” Mrs. Vanner was quite firm about that. “The fact that it was not Mersham is all that matters, from your point of view, isn
’
t it?”

“Why—why, yes,” agreed Freda, in utter dejection. “I suppose it is.”

She hardly knew how to keep back her tears. Not for any humiliation or chagrin. But because the lovely, eager, heart-warming girl she had called “sister” for a few hours was not her sister, after all.

Incredible though it might seem, Celia was nothing to her. The saying about blood being thicker than water did not apply to them. Celia
—her
little Celia—had died under the bombs years ago, just as she had always supposed. The beautiful, bright Celia who had appeared for a moment on her horizon was just a sort of mirage.

And yet something rebellious stirred deep down in her. Something which almost hurt.

“I can
’
t believe it!” Freda exclaimed. “There
must be some explanation. I know—I
kno
w
—”

Suddenly she began to cry. Not loudly or stormily, but with quiet, deep sobs which astonished her herself—the more so that she simply could not control them.

“Oh, please
—”
Mrs. Vanner sounded distressed and, for the first time, uncertain of herself. “You mustn
’
t cry about it. After all, you hardly
know
Celia.”

“It doesn
’
t s-seem like that,” Freda sobbed. “She seemed just
like
my sister. For a few hours I—I had someone. Oh. I
’
m sorry, but
—”

“Don
’
t apologize.” It was Mr. Vanner who came over and put a kindly hand on her bowed head.
“
We do—I do—understand your distress. But it was better to find out now than later, wasn
’
t it?”

“
I suppose so,” Freda conceded sadly.

“
Of course it was.” Mrs. Vanner took up that line of argument with bracing firmness. “That was really why we had to make such searching enquiries, you know—why we may have appeared to be a
little—a littl
e”
she hesitated for the word and
seemed unable to find it.

“You see, if you
had
been Celia
’
s sister,” Mr. Vanner explained, “there would have been a good deal to settle—arrangements to make—and so on.”

“I don’t
understand.” Freda wiped her eyes childishly with the backs of her hands. “What sort of arrangements?”

“
Well, if you
had
been Celia
’
s sister, we should have felt some sort of responsibility for you.”

“Would you really?” Freda looked at Mr. Vanner
in
surprise, through her wet lashes, and she f
elt faintly
comforted that anyone should have thought about her in that sense, even passingly.

“
That was my husband
’
s idea,” said Mrs. Vanner, and Freda had the impression that she had not altogether shared it—even passingly.

“It was Celia
’
s idea too,” Mr. Vanner observed, with a faint smile. And Freda experienced a fresh stab of pain, as she imagined the eagerness with which Celia had probably planned—all to no purpose.

“I
’
d better go,” she said, getting wearily to her feet. “I
’
m sorry to have given you so much trouble for—for nothing.”

“You have no need to apologize,” Mr. Vanner told her. “Any mistake which was made was entirely understandable. Both my wife and I”—he gave a somewhat compelling look at his wife—
“
realize that.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” agreed Mrs. Vanner, almost genially, now that the danger, as she saw it, had completely passed. But she could not conceal the fact that she was glad Freda was going. Since the unpleasant interview was nearly over, she even held out her hand in farewell.

But, as she did so, something quite unexpected happened. The door opened abruptly, and Celia walked into the room.

“Celia!” exclaimed all three, in varying degrees of dismay and admonition, and Mrs. Vanner added quickly,

“I thought you had gone out for the evening.”

“I couldn
’
t, Mother. You must see that! I couldn
’
t possibly stay out of all the fun,” pleaded Celia, with a winning smile which showed how used she was to having her own way, even with her adopted mother. “Has everything been settled?” There was an awkward silence. Then it was Freda who said, quietly and with courage,

“Yes, my dear. Everything has been settled. I
’
m afraid we all made a mistake somewhere. There—there isn
’
t any connection between us. Your—your name was not the same as mine.”

“But it must be!” Celia suddenly turned very pale, and Freda loved her for it and longed to protect her from the pain which caused it.

“It simply isn
’
t,” Mrs. Vanner stated firmly. “And you
’
d have done much better to stay out of this, Celia. This was just the sort of scene we wanted to avoid.”

“But Freda
’
s my sister! I
know
she is.”

“You can
’
t know it, my dear, if she isn
’
t,” her father said, in a troubled tone. “This is all dreadfully upsetting. But the name by which you were registered at the casualty centre was nothing like Mersham.”

“What was it then?” Celia demanded.

But once more Mrs. Vanner said, “There isn
’
t any point in your knowing that now. Your name is Vanner.”

“That
’
s true, darling, you know.” Freda spoke tenderly, even though
they were now supposed to mean nothing to each other. “If you
’
re name isn
’
t
Mersham, that
’
s all that matters in this particular discussion.”

“But there must be something—something
—”

Celia ran her hands distractedly through her hair. “Think, Freda, think! Can
’
t you remember
anything
about the early days that would help?”

Both her adopted parents made futile little gestures, as though to stop this painful scene before anyone could be more deeply hurt. And Freda said helplessly,

“I can
’
t my dear. How can I? I was five—perhaps four—when Mother and C-Celia went away and left me in Crowmain with Mrs. Cant.”

“Mrs. Cant,” repeated Celia, in a wondering sort of tone, and suddenly both the Vanners were quite still. “Mrs.—Cant. That was the name! I remember now. There was a little boy who used to tease me and say,
‘
I can—but Celia Cant.
’
”

CHAPTER FOUR

As
Celia’s
high, excited voice died away, it seemed to Freda as though the very room waited for the next utterance.

Then it was Mr. Vanner who said quietly, “You
’
ve proved your own
c
ase, my child. The name under which you were registered for adoption was Celia Cant.”

“Then it
’
s true?” Celia
’
s lovely face crumpled suddenly, as though she were a child about to cry. But she recovered herself and repeated shakily, “It
’
s true! That was the name I must have given when they found me wandering. It was so simple—much simpler than my real name. I would remember that—and probably gave it as the name of the lady I
’
d been living with. And they must have thought I meant my mother. Oh, Freda!”

“Just a minute
—”
Mrs. Vanner began. But
nothing could stop the girls
’
reunion now. They
rushed into each other
’
s arms and hugged and kissed, as though they were only now meeting for the first time.

“It
’
s true,” Celia kept on saying. “Dear Freda—I didn
’
t know you meant so much to me until they tried to take you away.”

“We didn
’
t try to take her away, Celia,” Mr.
Vanner protested mildly. “We just
—”

“Oh, no, no. Of course you didn
’
t.” Freda turned eagerly to the Vanners, anxious that they should not feel themselves in any way shut out of this scene. “I more than understand your attitude. How
could
you think otherwise than you did when the names simply didn
’
t tally?”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Vanner. “I
’
m glad you realize that we had no wish to be unfair to you.”

“Of course not,” agreed his wife. But her tone lacked the warmth and conviction of his. And Freda could not help being aware that, however generously Mr. Vanner might regard the situation, for Mrs. Vanner it was a very disagreeable pill to have to swallow.

“Well, I think we
’
d better have a drink on this,” Mr. Vanner observed, filling in a small but awkward little pause. “It isn
’
t every day that we find a sister for Celia. Where
’
s Brian?”

“In his study, I think. Shall I fetch him?” enquired Celia eagerly. And, at a nod from her father, she darted away.

For a moment, Freda was embarrassed at being left alone with the older Vanners again. But then she saw that this provided her with a few minutes in which to say whatever she could to bridge the inevitable gap between them.

“It
’
s—it
’
s very kind of you to accept me so—completely, now that you know I
’
m really Celia
’
s sister,” she began nervously. “But I do realize that one can
’
t be enthusiastic about a stranger, to order.
Please don
’
t think I
’
m going to force myself on
y
ou
in
any way. I
—”

“
Nothing you
’
ve said so far has given us that impression,” Mr. Vanner
interrupted kindly. “The whole thing is a great surprise—even a shock—for
us, of course
—”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured his wife, who—temporarily perhaps—seemed too nonplussed by events to do anything but relinquish the direction of the conversation to him.

“But,” went on Mr. Vanner firmly, “as I said before, when I thought we were discussing the case in theory only, we should naturally feel that Celia
’
s sister was, to some extent, also our responsibility.”

“
Oh, Mr. Vanner,” exclaimed Freda aware of a sudden drop in the temperature around Mrs. Vanner,
“
you don
’
t have to feel that way at all! I
’
ve supported myself and—and looked after myself for ages.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Vanner smiled slightly. “Then I hope you
’
ll find it a pleasant novelty to have others to take some share in that now.”

Moved though she was by the genuine kindness of this, Freda also experienced a twinge of apprehension lest it might, in some way, constitute a threat to her independence. And, before she could find suitable words in which to acknowledge the kindness without committing herself, Celia came back into the room, followed by Brian Vanner.

“Hello, sister,” he said, and touched Freda
’
s cheek lightly with his hand.

“Really, Brian!” his mother protested. “There
’
s no need to—extend the relationship beyond its natural limits.”

“It was a joke,” Brian replied carelessly. “Freda doesn
’
t mind. Do you, Freda?”

“N-no. Of course not,” murmured Freda, who had, in fact, been a good deal touched by this form of address. “I don
’
t mind a bit.”

But she guessed that Mrs. Vanner did.