My Sister Celia by Mary Burchell Page A

silence might mean Freda ’ s withdrawal in a huff.
    “Yes, of course. I was just thinking. What time shall I come?”
    “About eight-thirty?”
    “Yes—all right.” Freda noted, in passing, that she was evidently not being invited to dinner with the Vanners until her credentials had been examined.
    “Do you know the address? I gave it to you last night. ” Celia repeated an address in St. John ’ s Wood.
    “ Yes—I remember.”
    “And, Freda—don ’ t mind about their doubts. It will be all right. I know it will!”
    “Of course. I don ’ t mind, really,” Freda insisted bravely.
    But she did mind. She minded very much indeed. Not that anyone should entertain reasonable doubts of the story which Celia had probably poured out. But that she should be asked to prove her bona fides in such unfriendly circumstances.
    However, there was nothing she could do about it, except go to the meeting with what dignity and courage she could muster. She must remember that she was no imposter, and that sh e had no reason whatever to feel either uncomfortable or apologetic. The facts—such as they were—must speak for themselves, and the Vanners must think what they would.
    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