must see it.”
Celeste said, “When it is all over you will go to Rebecca’s, I suppose.”
“Perhaps for a short stay.”
“We shall have to decide what we are going to do. I hope you won’t go away altogether.”
“You should come to Cornwall with me, Celeste … for a while at least. Rebecca suggested it.”
“I don’t know. I feel lost … unable to make decisions. I am so lonely … without Benedict … although I know he never really cared for me. But he was always so much a part of my life.”
“He did care for you, Celeste. It was just that he did not show it.”
“He could not show it because it was not there. He showered his affection on you … and your mother.”
“But, Celeste, he did love you. He was grateful to you, I know.”
“Well,” she said ruefully, “that is all over now.”
“And there are the two of us left. Let us stay together.”
She put her arms about me.
I said, “You are a great comfort to me, Celeste.”
“And you to me,” she replied.
My father was buried with a certain amount of ceremony. We should have liked it to have been done quietly, but in view of the circumstances we had realized that that would be impossible.
His coffin was hidden by flowers and there had to be an extra carriage to accommodate them all. Many, I thought ironically, had been sent by those who had been his enemies in life; but those who had been envious need be so no longer. Who could be envious of a dead man? He could now be remembered for his brilliance, his wit, his shrewdness, his hopes of a high post in government now cut short. They were talking about the certainty of his becoming Prime Minister one day … if he had lived. It was a great career cut short by a senseless murder, they said. My father, by dying, had become a hero.
The eulogies in the press were almost embarrassing. There was no mention of that early scandal which had blighted his hopes, the resurrection of which he had always lived in fear. It would appear now that he had been loved and admired by all.
Such is the glory attained through death; and the more sudden and violent the death, the greater the glory.
I read these accounts. Celeste and Rebecca read them. We knew them for the clichés they were, but did we allow ourselves to be swept along on the tide of insincerity? I suppose we did a little. But there was no comfort for me. I had lost him forever and there was a terrible emptiness left.
When the will was read we realized how very rich he had been. He had rewarded all his faithful servants with substantial legacies. Celeste was well provided for; Rebecca was left a considerable sum. As for the rest of his fortune, there was to be some sort of trust. It was for me during my lifetime, and after me it would go to my children; and if I failed to have any it was to be for Rebecca or her children.
The house in London was left to Celeste; the one at Manorleigh to me.
I had never thought a great deal about money and at such a time, with so much else to occupy my thoughts, I did not fully realize what this would mean.
The solicitors said that when I had recovered a little they would talk with me and explain what had to be explained. There was really no hurry. I could hardly give my attention to such matters now.
Rebecca said, “When this is all over, you will have to start thinking what you want to do. There will be changes, no doubt. The best thing for you to do … and Celeste, too … is to come back to Cornwall with me … away from all this. Then you will be able to see everything more clearly.”
I had no doubt that she was right, yet I hesitated. Joel would be coming home soon. I clung to the thought that I should be able to talk with him.
I had been so stunned by my father’s death that I had been unable to think of anything else. Now memories of Joel were coming back. I would not be alone. Joel would return and when he did he would help me to recover from this terrible shock.
In a way I longed to
Celeste said, “When it is all over you will go to Rebecca’s, I suppose.”
“Perhaps for a short stay.”
“We shall have to decide what we are going to do. I hope you won’t go away altogether.”
“You should come to Cornwall with me, Celeste … for a while at least. Rebecca suggested it.”
“I don’t know. I feel lost … unable to make decisions. I am so lonely … without Benedict … although I know he never really cared for me. But he was always so much a part of my life.”
“He did care for you, Celeste. It was just that he did not show it.”
“He could not show it because it was not there. He showered his affection on you … and your mother.”
“But, Celeste, he did love you. He was grateful to you, I know.”
“Well,” she said ruefully, “that is all over now.”
“And there are the two of us left. Let us stay together.”
She put her arms about me.
I said, “You are a great comfort to me, Celeste.”
“And you to me,” she replied.
My father was buried with a certain amount of ceremony. We should have liked it to have been done quietly, but in view of the circumstances we had realized that that would be impossible.
His coffin was hidden by flowers and there had to be an extra carriage to accommodate them all. Many, I thought ironically, had been sent by those who had been his enemies in life; but those who had been envious need be so no longer. Who could be envious of a dead man? He could now be remembered for his brilliance, his wit, his shrewdness, his hopes of a high post in government now cut short. They were talking about the certainty of his becoming Prime Minister one day … if he had lived. It was a great career cut short by a senseless murder, they said. My father, by dying, had become a hero.
The eulogies in the press were almost embarrassing. There was no mention of that early scandal which had blighted his hopes, the resurrection of which he had always lived in fear. It would appear now that he had been loved and admired by all.
Such is the glory attained through death; and the more sudden and violent the death, the greater the glory.
I read these accounts. Celeste and Rebecca read them. We knew them for the clichés they were, but did we allow ourselves to be swept along on the tide of insincerity? I suppose we did a little. But there was no comfort for me. I had lost him forever and there was a terrible emptiness left.
When the will was read we realized how very rich he had been. He had rewarded all his faithful servants with substantial legacies. Celeste was well provided for; Rebecca was left a considerable sum. As for the rest of his fortune, there was to be some sort of trust. It was for me during my lifetime, and after me it would go to my children; and if I failed to have any it was to be for Rebecca or her children.
The house in London was left to Celeste; the one at Manorleigh to me.
I had never thought a great deal about money and at such a time, with so much else to occupy my thoughts, I did not fully realize what this would mean.
The solicitors said that when I had recovered a little they would talk with me and explain what had to be explained. There was really no hurry. I could hardly give my attention to such matters now.
Rebecca said, “When this is all over, you will have to start thinking what you want to do. There will be changes, no doubt. The best thing for you to do … and Celeste, too … is to come back to Cornwall with me … away from all this. Then you will be able to see everything more clearly.”
I had no doubt that she was right, yet I hesitated. Joel would be coming home soon. I clung to the thought that I should be able to talk with him.
I had been so stunned by my father’s death that I had been unable to think of anything else. Now memories of Joel were coming back. I would not be alone. Joel would return and when he did he would help me to recover from this terrible shock.
In a way I longed to
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