The Changeling

By Philippa Carr

Three young women bound by ties deeper than blood are swept up in a web of intrigue and betrayal in this haunting gothic tale
Rebecca Mandeville arrives at Manorleigh with her mother amid rumors that Rebecca’s politically ambitious stepfather may have murdered his first wife. Homesick for her native Cornwall, Rebecca feels she’ll never belong at Benedict Lansdon’s ancestral estate—a place haunted by the phantoms of past crimes. When tragedy strikes, Rebecca struggles to move on, and becomes inextricably linked to two young girls: her half-sister Belinda and an orphan named Lucie. Teeming with scandal and murder, The Changeling is at once an atmospheric ghost tale and a gripping story of familial betrayal as powerful as the woman at its haunting center.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781480403819

Philippa Carr

Philippa Carr (1906–1993) was one of the twentieth century’s premier authors of historical fiction. She was born Eleanor Alice Burford, in London, England. Over the course of her career, she used eight pseudonyms, including Jean Plaidy and Victoria Holt—pen names that signaled a riveting combination of superlative suspense and the royal history of the Tudors and Plantagenets. Philippa Carr was Burford’s last pseudonym, created in 1972. The Miracle at St. Bruno’s, the first novel in Carr’s acclaimed Daughters of England series, was followed by nineteen additional books. Burford died at sea on January 18, 1993. At the time of her death, there were over one hundred million copies of her books in print, and her popularity continues today. 

Book preview

The Changeling

Philippa Carr

Contents

The Last Summer

The Waiting Months

A Christmas Tragedy

The Engagement

The Ghost in the Garden

The Treasure Hunt

Nightmare

Blackmail

Missing Person

The Devil’s Crown

Confession

Preview: Black Swan

The Last Summer

I WAS TEN YEARS old when my contented life was disrupted by my mother’s marriage to Benedict Lansdon. Had I been older, more experienced of life, I should have seen the inevitability of it. But there I was, happy and snug in my little world, my mother the center of my life—as I believed I was of hers—and it did not occur to me that there could be an intruder to disturb us.

It was not as though he were a stranger to me. He had been there almost as long as I could remember—a rather flamboyant figure in the background, and that was where I wanted, and expected, him to remain.

He had been present on the Australian goldfields when and where I was born. In fact my arrival had actually taken place in his house.

Mr. Lansdon, my mother explained, was different from the rest of the miners. He owned a moderately successful mine and he employed men who had given up trying on their own. We all lived in shacks. You never saw the likes unless it was the hut in the woods where that old tramp stayed last winter. Quite unsuitable for babies! And it was decided you should be born in his house. Pedrek was born there too.

Pedrek Cartwright was my greatest friend. His parents lived in London but his grandfather owned Pencarron Mine which was near Cador, my grandparents’ home in Cornwall—so we were often together both in London and Cornwall. If his parents were not going to Cornwall and we were going to see my grandparents, he travelled with us; and my mother was very friendly with his parents in London; so we were really like one family.

Pedrek and I used to play at gold mining when we were smaller. There was a great bond between us because we had both been born in a mining township on the other side of the world—and in the house of Mr. Benedict Lansdon.

I should have guessed what was happening because when my mother spoke of Benedict Lansdon her voice would change, her eyes would sparkle and her mouth smile. But I did not attach any significance to that at the time.

Not that it would have made any difference. I should have hated it just the same, but if I had been prepared, it would not have been such a shock.

It was not until after the marriage that I realized how good life had been. I had taken so much for granted.

There had been my happy life in London not far from the park where I would go each morning with my governess, Miss Brown, to walk though the paths under the great trees-chestnut, oak and beech. We would sit with the other nannies to whom Miss Brown wanted to chat while I played with their children. We would feed the ducks on the pond and run about on the expanse of grass which was there for that purpose.

I loved the shops; there was a market some little distance from us and I was sometimes taken there on winter afternoons with Miss Brown. How exciting it was to wander among the crowds and watch the people at their stalls, particularly when it began to get dark and the naphtha flares were lighted. Once we ate jellied eels at a stall about which Miss Brown was a little uneasy because she thought it unsuitable; but I cajoled her. I loved to see the ladies in their wonderful clothes and the gentlemen in their top hats and morning coats. I loved winter evenings when we sat by the fire and listened for the muffin man’s bell when Emmy our maid would run out with a dish and buy some which my mother and I would toast by the fire.

They were happy days which I thought would go on for ever, because I was then unaware of Benedict Lansdon lurking in the background, just waiting for the appropriate time to change it all.

When the trees in the Park began to bud, and even the one in our little square garden showed signs of a few inedible pears that it might in due course produce, my mother would say: It is time we went to Cornwall. I’ll speak to Aunt Morwenna. I wonder what their plans are this year?

Aunt Morwenna was Pedrek’s mother, and my mother and I would go to their house which was not very far from ours and Pedrek would take me up to his room to show me his new puppy or some toy he had just acquired; we would talk of Cornwall and what we would do when we arrived there—he to his grandparents, me to mine.

There would follow the excitement of the train. Pedrek and I would endeavor to have a window to ourselves; we would shriek to each other to look at this and that as the train rushed by meadows, streams and woodlands before pulling into the stations.

And at the end of this journey there would be our grandparents waiting for us and making us feel that it was the most wonderful thing that could happen because we were coming to be with them. Then Pedrek would go on his way to Pencarron and I to Cador.

Cador, that most magnificent and exciting house, had been the home of Cadorsons for hundreds of years. There were no Cadorsons there now. The name had died out when my great-grandfather Jake Cadorson and his son Jacco were drowned in Australia and the house had passed to my grandmother who had married Rolf Hanson. I always thought it was a pity the name had died out, for Cadorsons would have been so appropriate at Cador.

Thankfully, however, the house was still in the family; and although my grandfather had come to it through marriage, he loved it, I believe, more than any other member of the family did.

I could understand his feelings for it. There it stood—grey stone, with its towers and turrets, like a medieval fortress. When I was alone in the big lofty rooms, I could imagine myself back hundreds of years. It was exciting and when I was young rather frightening; but there was always the reassuring presence of my mother and my grandparents. My grandfather would tell exciting stories of the past involving roundheads and cavaliers, of storms and shipwrecks and of adventurers who had gone off to the hitherto undiscovered places of the world.

I loved Cador. There the days seemed longer and the sun seemed to shine for days on end. And when the rain came it was just as exciting. I loved the sea. Sometimes we would be allowed to take a little trip on it, but my grandmother never liked that. She could not forget that her parents and brother had been drowned.

I used to go down to the two towns of Poldorey with my mother and grandmother. We would stroll past the cottages on the quay and watch the fishermen mending their nets or talking about the catch. Sometimes I would go down with Mr. Yeo, the butler, to buy fish. I was fascinated by the fishes squirming on the weighing machine which was spattered with silver scales. I would listen to the fishermen’s talk. ’Twas a good catch today, ’Arry. The Lord calmed down them old waves, ’e did and all. At other times it was a gloomy story. No fish today. Jesus Christ Himself wouldn’t venture out on a sea like this. I knew most of them by name—Tom, Ted, Harry. Some of them had grand-sounding names: Reuben, Solomon, Japheth, Obediah … names taken from the Bible. Most of the families had been ardent Wesleyans since John and Charles Wesley had roamed through Cornwall bringing its people to righteousness.

Cador was about a quarter of a mile from the two towns East and West Poldorey which were separated by the River Poldor and were connected by an ancient bridge. I loved the steep streets of the town which wound up to the clifftop where one could look out across the sea. There was a wooden seat so that people might sit and rest after the climb and there I would sit with my grandfather and persuade him to tell me stories of smugglers and wreckers who lured ships to disaster along this coast. I would search on the beach for the semi-precious stones which were reputed to be found there, but the only ones I ever saw were in the window of Mr. Bander’s shop, marked with the inscription Found on Poldorey Beach.

I was proud to belong to Cador Folk as the family were respectfully referred to in the Poldoreys.

All this was mine—and there was the London home, too. The tall narrow house which my mother and I shared with the servants … not many of them. There were of course my governess, Miss Brown, who would have been horrified to be called a servant, then Mr. and Mrs. Emery; she was cook and housekeeper and he a man of all work who tended our tiny garden; and there was a housemaid Ann and a parlormaid Jane.

It was an intimate household. My mother was not one to stand on ceremony, and I think all the servants were devoted to her. They felt themselves to be part of the family. There was not that impenetrable barrier between up and below stairs as there was in larger establishments such as that of Mr. Benedict Lansdon and my Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis. Not that they were really my uncle and aunt; they were not even my mother’s. They were very old and the family connection went back some generations. Benedict Lansdon was Uncle Peter’s grandson, so there was even a link with him.

Uncle Peter, though very old, was an important man; he was rich and had lots of interests—some of them rather mysterious; but he was quite an awe-inspiring figure. His wife, Aunt Amaryllis, was one of those very feminine women who seem endearingly helpless and somehow hold the family together. Everyone loved her—including myself.

They entertained lavishly, although Uncle Peter’s daughter Helena and his son-in-law Martin Hume, the well-known politician, were often hostess and host at the functions held at their home. It was an exciting family to belong to.

I remember the incidents from what I thought of afterwards as the Last Summer, for it was after Christmas of that year that I had my first inkling of what was to come.

My mother and I had arrived in Cornwall. Pedrek had travelled down with us and the days seemed to have been spent between Cador and Pencarron Manor. Both Pedrek and I had to do lessons for a certain number of hours each day and these were allowed to coincide by an accommodating Miss Brown and Mr. Clenham who was Pedrek’s tutor. Pedrek was to go to school the following year so that in itself would bring change. We rode a great deal but were not allowed to go out on our own. There always had to be an adult with us which was rather restricting. So we spent a good deal of time in the paddock practicing jumping and showing off our equestrian skill to each other.

On this occasion we were with my mother and, as it seemed on many occasions, we found ourselves at St. Branok’s Pool.

I was fascinated by it. So was Pedrek. It was an uncanny spot with the willows hanging over it. The still waters of the Pool were said to be bottomless, and it had a reputation for being a place to avoid after dark. I suppose that was why it attracted me. My mother always appeared to be fascinated by it.

As usual we tied up our horses and stretched ourselves out on the grass leaning against the boulders which protruded from the ground in certain places.

They could be the stones of an old monastery, my mother had told us.

We had heard the story many times of the bells which were reputed to ring if a disaster threatened. They were at the bottom of the pool according to the legend.

Pedrek, who was very logical, said that if they were at the bottom, the pool could not be bottomless, to which my mother replied that flaws could often be found in most legends if one tried hard enough.

I don’t want flaws to be found, I told them. I like to think it is bottomless and that the bells are there all the same.

A monastery was destroyed by floods because the monks turned from the path of righteousness, explained my mother.

There are lots of righteous people about here, I commented. There is old Mrs. Fenny on the quay who watches everything that goes on and thinks everyone but herself is heading for hell fire. And there’s Mrs. Polhenny who goes to church twice on Sundays and tries to make her daughter Leah as holy as she is, so that the poor girl never gets any fun.

People are very strange, said my mother, but you have to be tolerant with them. ‘Cast the beam out of your own eye …’

"You sound like Mrs. Polhenny now, Mama, I said. She’s always quoting the Bible, but she would be sure she hasn’t the slightest speck in her eyes."

Dreamily I would stare at the pool and lure her to tell me the story, which she had told so many times of how, when I was a little girl, I had been taken away by Jenny Stubbs who still lived in the cottage near the pool; they had thought I had wandered into the water because one of my toys was found in the brink.

They dragged the pool, said my mother, her eyes wide as though she were looking into the past. I shall never forget it. I thought I had lost you.

She was too emotional to proceed, and as I loved the story I could not hear it often enough: how Jenny Stubbs had rung toy bells hoping to drive them away because she had me hidden in her cottage, how she had cherished me and believed I was the little girl whom she had lost.

Pedrek liked the story too. He had heard it often enough before but he was never impatient when it was repeated. He knew that I liked to hear it over and over again, and he was always careful not to hurt other people’s feelings, even when he was a boy.

What I remember of that occasion is that while we were talking Jenny Stubbs herself, the main character in the story, came out of her cottage and walked to the edge of the pool.

She did not see us at first and she was singing to herself. She had a rather high, reedy voice which sounded uncanny on the stillness of the air.

My mother called: Good afternoon, Jenny.

She turned sharply, as though startled. Good afternoon to ’ee, Ma’am, she said.

She stood facing us, her back to the pool. The light breeze ruffled her fine fair hair and she looked fey—someone who is not quite as others are.

Are you well, Jenny? asked my mother.

Yes, thank ’ee, Ma’am. I be well.

She walked slowly towards us. Her eyes scanned Pedrek and myself and I expected to see some interest in her for the child she had once stolen and cherished. But there was no sign that she was any more interested in me than she was in Pedrek. My mother said later that she would have forgotten that it had ever happened. We had to remember that Jenny was strange … not as other people; she lived in a world of her own creating; she must do to have taken someone else’s child and thought it was her own.

She came and stood near us. She was gazing at my mother and it was easy to see that she drew some comfort from her presence.

I be expecting this Lammas, she said.

Oh Jenny … replied my mother, and added quickly: You must be very happy.

’Tis a little girl, I be sure of that, said Jenny.

My mother nodded and Jenny turned away; walking towards her cottage, she started to sing in her strange unworldly voice.

It is very sad, said my mother, when she was out of earshot. She can never forget that she lost her baby all those years ago.

That baby would be the same age as I am now, I said, because she thought I was her baby once.

My mother nodded. And now she thinks she is going to have another. It is not the first time she has thought this.

What happens when she doesn’t? I asked.

It is hard to know what goes on in her poor clouded mind. But she does know how to look after a baby. She was wonderful with you during the few days she had you. We couldn’t have looked after you better.

But I wanted to come home, didn’t I? When you found me in her cottage I ran to the door, calling for you to take me home.

My mother nodded again. Oh, poor, poor Jenny, she said. I feel so very sorry for her. We must be as kind to her as we can.

We were silent, looking at the pool. I was thinking of the days I had spent in Jenny’s cottage, and wishing I could remember more of that time; I was thinking of her ringing toy bells to drive people away so that she could have me to herself.

I felt that poor Jenny was a part of my childhood and I must always be kind and understanding towards her. I knew that was how my mother felt.

I was constantly reminding myself of little incidents from that Last Summer. I remember seeing Jenny often walking along the lanes past the pool to her cottage, singing to herself in that slightly out of tune way which gave her an otherworldliness that was, for me, intriguing.

She seemed happy and her happiness was in constant delusion. She thought she was going to have a child to replace the one which she had lost; it was what she longed for, and in her simple mind she believed that child would be born to her.

It was pathetic, and yet in a way she was happy because she believed in her fantasy.

Another incident I remembered from that summer occurred when I was in the company of my grandmother. We were the greatest of friends; she seemed too young to be a grandmother; she was more like a lively young aunt or an elder sister.

She told me a great deal about my mother. You must look after her, she said. She has had a sad time, you know. She was married to a wonderful man—your father—and he died before you were born and she was all alone.

She had explained several times that my father had wanted to go to Australia to make a fortune so that we could all come back to England and live in comfort. He had gone to find gold and Pedrek’s parents had been with him and my mother. They had lived in the township which was a very brave thing to do because they were all unused to hardship. Pedrek’s father and mine had been partners. She explained to me how the mines could be quite unsafe; they had to be propped up with wood so that they would not cave in, which was what theirs did. Pedrek’s father had been down in the mine when it happened, and my father went down and brought him up. He had passed him to the watchers on the brink and before they could help my father out, there was a great fall of earth, and he had been taken down with it.

He gave his life for his friend, she finished.

I know, I replied. Pedrek’s mother told me. She said Pedrek and I must always remember this and be friends for ever.

She nodded. You will, she said. I know you will be. And you must love your mother dearly, for when he died … she gave all that love she had had for him to you.

I understood. It was how I wanted it to be.

On this particular day we walked down to West Poldorey to the ancient church which stood close to the sea. It was small, dating back to Norman times. West Poldorey was very proud of it and East Poldorey a little envious because it wasn’t on their side, for people from far off came to look at it and it was said it should never be allowed to crumble away. There were many bazaars and garden fetes to bolster up its roof which needed constant repair and I heard ominous talk of woodworm and death watch beetle.

I liked to creep in when no one was there and think of all those people who had sat in that church, just as I was doing. My grandfather had said that people had gone in there to pray when the Armada was off our coast and again when Napoleon was threatening to invade us. In the old church—as in Cador—one could easily slip back into the past.

The church door was open and we heard voices inside.

I know, said my grandmother. They are decorating the church with flowers for John Polgarth’s wedding. John Polgarth was the man who owned the grocer’s shop in East Poldorey, quite a worthy member of the community, and he was to marry Molly Agar, daughter of the butcher.

The wedding was to be the next day.

As we stepped through the door I heard the commanding voice of Mrs. Polhenny. She was a very important person in the neighborhood because she followed the profession of midwife and most of the younger generation had been brought into the world by her. I always thought she believed that gave her the right to pass judgment on their actions and superintend their spiritual welfare, for this she did in no uncertain way.

She was naturally not popular with her protégés. That was of no importance to her. She would have said she was not there to make people like her but to put them on the road to salvation.

Mrs. Polhenny was a good woman if by good it was meant that she went to church twice every Sunday and often in the week, that she was involved in most good works for the salvation of the church, and that she could apply the Scriptures to almost every occasion; and as she could not help being deeply aware of her own goodness she was quick to detect the sin in others.

Naturally her life was one long disapproval of almost everyone around her. Even the vicar came in for criticism. He took the Bible teaching too literally, she said, and was inclined to seek the company of the publicans and sinners rather than those whose sins had been washed away by the blood of the Lamb because of their devotion to duty and their love of virtue.

I did not like Mrs. Polhenny. I found her a most uncomfortable person. Not that I had a great deal to do with her, but I was sorry for Leah, her daughter, who was about sixteen years old at this time. Mrs. Polhenny was a widow but I had never heard of a Mr. Polhenny; there must have been one, otherwise there could not have been a Leah.

She must have killed him off pretty quick, was the comment of Mrs. Garnett, the cook at Cador. Poor fellow, I reckon he had a rare old time of it.

Leah was very pretty but she always seemed cowed as though she were looking over her shoulder, expecting the devil to be lurking somewhere ready to spring out and tempt her.

Leah was a seamstress. She did beautiful embroidery which she and her mother took into Plymouth once a month and sold to a shop there. Her work was exquisite and the poor girl was kept at it.

On this day she was in church with her mother, helping with the flowers, and Mrs. Polhenny was giving orders to her.

Good morning, Mrs. Polhenny, said my grandmother. What beautiful roses!

Mrs. Polhenny looked pleased. It’ll be a good show for the wedding, Mrs. Hanson.

Oh yes indeed … John Polgarth and Molly Agar.

Everyone in the towns will be there to see them wed, went on Mrs. Polhenny, and added significantly: And it’s about time, too.

I’m sure they will be very suited. Nice girl, Molly.

H’m, said Mrs. Polhenny. A bit on the flighty side.

Oh, she’s just high spirited.

Agar did well to get her married. She’s not the sort to be left unwed. Mrs. Polhenny pursed her lips, hinting at secret knowledge.

Well, it’s all for the best then, replied my grandmother.

There was a movement behind us. Mrs. Polhenny was studying the flowers in the container. I glanced around. The newcomer was a young girl. I did not know her. She slipped into one of the pews and knelt down.

Mrs. Polhenny said: Bring me that spray, Leah. That would go very well here … She stopped short. She was staring at the girl kneeling in the pew.

Can I believe my eyes? she said loudly and with indignation.

We were all silent, wondering what she meant. She had left the flowers and walked briskly down the aisle to the girl.

Get out! she cried. You slut! How dare you come into this holy place? It’s not for the likes of you.

The girl had risen. I thought she was going to burst into tears.

I only wanted … she began.

Out! cried Mrs. Polhenny. Out, I say!

My grandmother cut in. Wait a moment. What does this mean? Tell me what’s going on.

The girl shot past us and ran out of the church.

You may well ask, said Mrs. Polhenny. It’s one of the sluts from Bays Cottages. Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. And I don’t mind telling you she’s six months gone.

"Her husband.

Mrs. Polhenny laughed mirthlessly. Husband? Her sort don’t wait for husbands. She’s not the first in that lot, I can tell you. They’re bad, through and through. It’s a marvel to me that the Lord don’t smite them on the spot.

Perhaps He feels more kindly towards sinners than some mortals do.

They’ll come to judgment, never fear. Mrs. Polhenny’s eyes glittered as though she were already seeing the girl writhing in the flames of hell.

Well, she was here in church, said my grandmother. She must have been repenting, and you know there is great joy over sinners who repent.

If I were the Lord, said Mrs. Polhenny, I’d do something about them Bay Cottages, that I would.

Perhaps some have to be thankful that you are not the Lord, retorted my grandmother somewhat tartly. Tell me about the girl. Who is she?

Daisy Martin. A bad lot, that family. The girl’s grandmother called me in. She’s repented her ways … getting old and frightened of what’s to come, I shouldn’t wonder. Wanted me to take a look at the girl. I said, ‘She’s six months gone and what about the man?’ She said it was one of them farm laborers who came on to help with the thatching. The girl’s only sixteen. Disgraceful, I call it.

But you’ll deliver the child, of course.

I have to do that, don’t I? ’Tis my work, and if a baby’s been planted, however sinfully, it’s my duty to bring it into the world. God sent me here to do this work and nothing would stop me.

I’m glad of that, replied my grandmother. We must not visit the sins of the parents upon the children, you know.

Well, they’re God’s children, however they’ve been come by. As for that creature … I hope they cast her out … once the child’s born. It does the neighborhood no good to have her sort about.

She’s only sixteen, you say.

Old enough to know better.

She’s not the first, by any means.

So much for the sinful ways into which we have fallen.

There is nothing very new about these things, you know, said my grandmother.

The Lord will take His vengeance, Mrs. Polhenny assured us, looking up to the rafters as though to Heaven—giving the Lord a little prod, I thought, to remind him that He was being lax in performing His duty.

I knew my grandmother was torn between the pity she felt for the wayward young Daisy and the secret pleasure she derived from baiting Mrs. Polhenny who went on: The goings on at Poldorey … East and West … well, it would give you a bit of a shock, I reckon, if you knew all.

Then I suppose I should be thankful to remain in ignorance.

The Lord will take His vengeance one day … mark my words.

I can hardly see East and West Poldorey as Sodom and Gomorrah.

It’s coming, you’ll see.

I hope not. But what I do see is that we are holding up your work. We’ll say goodbye, Mrs. Polhenny.

We stood outside the church and my grandmother breathed deeply, as though she needed fresh air after the atmosphere in the church.

Then she turned to me and laughed. What a self-righteous woman. I’d rather have a sinner any day. Oh well … she’s an excellent midwife. There isn’t a better in the whole width and breadth of Cornwall. My dear, we must look after that poor girl. I’ll go along to the cottages tomorrow and see what I can find out.

She seemed suddenly to remember my age, and possibly it occurred to her that I was being introduced to the facts of life before I was ready to absorb them.

She went on: We’ll go over to Pencarron this afternoon. Isn’t it wonderful that you have Pedrek here with you?

I thought a lot about Mrs. Polhenny and always scrutinized her cottage closely when I passed by. It was just outside East Poldorey and often I would see clothes drying on the bushes. There were lace curtains at the windows, spotlessly clean, and the stone steps leading to the front door were regularly scrubbed. She obviously believed that cleanliness was next to godliness; and saw herself as an upholder of both virtues.

Once or twice I glimpsed Leah at a window. She would be there with her embroidery frame, stitching away. Sometimes she looked up from her work and saw me. I would smile, wave my hand, and she would acknowledge my greeting.

I should have liked to talk to her. I wanted to know what it was like living with a mother such as Mrs. Polhenny. But she always gave me the impression, if ever I hesitated, that she must get on quickly with her work.

Poor Leah! I thought. It must be hard to be the daughter of a saintly woman who, as she felt it her duty to uphold the morals of the countryside, must be much more strict in her own home.

I thanked God for my mother, my grandparents and the Pencarrons. They might not be so concerned with the laws of God but they were much more comfortable to live with.

So that summer passed as others had. My grandmother visited Bays Cottages and took clothes and food for the young girl; Mrs. Polhenny delivered a healthy boy in due course and my grandmother affirmed that, however irritating she was in other ways, she knew her job and mothers were safe in her hands.

I seemed to see Jenny Stubbs more frequently that year. Perhaps it was because I noticed her more. I would see her in the lanes. She worked for one of the farmers’ wives and I heard she was a good worker. They all humored her, it was said, and Mrs. Bullet, the farmer’s wife, made sure none of the other workers teased her or disillusioned her as to her state. It does no harm to none, said Mrs. Bullet, so let the poor soul have her fancies.

So Jenny, singing in her reedy off-key tone and Mrs. Polhenny preaching righteousness wherever she went … that was what I remembered most from that Last Summer.

And now, looking back, that seems somehow significant.

It is all so clear to me; waving goodbye to the grandparents, which was rather sad in a way. I tried to hide from them the excitement I felt at the thought of seeing London again.

I wish, I said to Pedrek, that we could all live close together.

He had the same problem. His grandmother was almost in tears at his departure. Like myself, he wanted to show how sad he was and yet he could not hide his eagerness to be reunited with his parents. The similarity of our positions had always drawn Pedrek and me closer together.

Then we were speeding back to London.

Pedrek’s parents were at the station to meet us. It was the usual ritual. If I had been travelling with his parents, my mother would have been there. There is something very comforting about normality which I did not appreciate until it ceased to be there.

We drove back to our house first where we would have tea before the Cartwrights went off to their place only a few streets away, taking Pedrek with them.

Innumerable questions were asked and Pedrek and I talked happily about what we had done in Cornwall.

We were all sitting at the table—Miss Brown and Pedrek’s tutor with us—when a visitor arrived.

Mr. Benedict Lansdon! announced Jane with more dignity than was customary with her. And there he was—very tall and with what I can only describe as a commanding presence.

Benedict, said my mother, rising.

She went to him and he took both her hands and they stood there smiling at each other.

Then she turned to us. Isn’t this a nice surprise?

I discovered what train you were catching, explained Benedict Lansdon.

Come and sit down and have a cup of tea, said my mother warmly.

He smiled at us all and pleasantries were exchanged.

I felt deflated. We had departed from the normal. We should have gone on chattering about Cornwall, encouraged by our parents, and then Pedrek should have departed with his mother and father after we had made arrangements when next to meet. That was how it usually went.

How are things in the mining world? asked Benedict, smiling at Pedrek’s father.

Oh … ups and downs, said Justin Cartwright. I am sure you know as much about the mining world as I do … only I suppose tin isn’t gold.

There must be a difference, said Benedict Lansdon. But my close connection with all that ended long ago.

Ah, yes, of course, replied Justin Cartwright.

I’m going into politics again, said Benedict Lansdon, looking at my mother.

Her eyes widened with pleasure. Oh really, Benedict, that’s wonderful. I always said …

He looked at her, nodding and understanding passed between them. I felt shut out. It was as though I had just discovered that she had a life which did not include me.

I know you did, he went on. Well, that is what is happening.

Do tell us the news, Benedict, begged Morwenna, Pedrek’s mother.

It’s no secret, he replied. I am up for selection as candidate for Manorleigh.

Your old constituency, cried Justin.

Benedict nodded. He was looking straight at my mother. I, who knew her so well, felt a twinge of alarm.

All very fortuitous, said Benedict. Tom Dollis died suddenly. Poor chap, he was quite young. A heart attack. He had only been in the House a short while. It will mean a by-election soon.

Isn’t it a Conservative stronghold? asked Justin.

Benedict nodded. Has been for years … but it was almost broken … once.

Again that glance at my mother. If I’m selected, he went on, we shall have to make sure the seat doesn’t change hands again.

We? It was as though he included her.

She lifted her teacup. Having nothing stronger at hand, she said, I’ll drink to your success in tea.

What does the beverage matter? he said. It’s the wish that counts.

Well, it’s most exciting, I must say.

Again that smile between them. I think so, he said. I knew you would.

Morwenna said: I do know you are an ardent supporter of Mr. Gladstone.

My dear Morwenna, he’s the greatest politician of the century.

What of Peel … Palmerston …? began Justin Cartwright.

Benedict dismissed them with a flick of the hand.

And they do say that Mr. Disraeli is quite brilliant, added Morwenna.

That upstart! He owes his rise to his oily flattery of the Queen.

Oh come, said Justin. Surely there is more to it than that? The man’s a genius.

With a flair for self-advertisement.

He did become Prime Minister.

Oh, for a month or so …

My mother burst out laughing. I can see that we are going to be deeply involved in the politics of the day. When is the by-election, Benedict?

In December.

They’ll have to make a decision quickly.

It’s not much time to prepare. I should manage though.

Neither Pedrek nor I had spoken during this discourse and I was wondering whether he was thinking the same as I was which was, that they had completely forgotten that we were there. Usually after long separations, they wanted to hear all that had been going on, how our riding had improved, how high we could jump, how the grandparents were, what the weather had been like and such things.

Then they were talking about Mr. Gladstone’s plans for reform in Ireland. Benedict Lansdon, of course, knew all about that. He took control and the others were his audience. We heard how Mr. Gladstone was concerned about the distressed state of the Irish and the growing discontent in that country and he was convinced that the remedy lay with the government.

And that was our homecoming—spoilt, I commented to Pedrek, by Benedict Lansdon.

Our lives from then on were dominated by the man. He was a constant caller. When I walked in the Park with my mother he often joined us. They would talk together and seem to forget that I was there, though sometimes he addressed a remark to me. He asked me how I was getting on with my riding and said we must all go riding together.

He had been selected—as my mother had known he would be—and was thinking of buying a house in Manorleigh; he wanted my mother to go down there and give her opinion.

I was longing for him to go. He had rented a furnished house there while he looked round. But he was frequently in London.

November was almost with us. They were sweeping up the leaves in the parks and there was a lovely smell of burning in the air. It was misty and a blue haze hung over the trees which made them look mysterious. Pedrek and I had always loved this time of year; we would shuffle through the leaves and conjure up all sorts of fantastic adventures in which we triumphed and astonished everyone with our bravery, ingenuity and skill.

But the dreams would not come that year. A faint uneasiness was creeping into my mind.

And then … I learned the worst.

I had gone to bed and was sitting up reading as I often did and which was allowed by Miss Brown before she came to put out the light.

My mother entered the room. Her eyes were brilliant. I had heard talk about people being radiant and that was how she was. She glowed with an inner light. I had never seen such unadulterated happiness.

She lay down on the bed and put her arms round me.

Rebecca, she said, I wanted you to be the first to know.

I turned to her and buried my face against her shoulder.

She stroked my hair. There has always been just us … hasn’t there? You and I together. Oh, there was the family, of course, and we loved them all dearly … but for us … you and me … there was always something very close and dear … and it is always going to be like that for as long as we both shall live.

I nodded. I was beginning to be rather frightened for some instinct told me what she was going to say.

Then it came: I’m going to be married again, Rebecca.

No … no, I murmured.

She held me tightly. You will grow to love him, as I do. He is a wonderful man. I knew him when I was young … not much older than you are now. There has always been a very special friendship between us.

You married my father, I reminded her.

Yes … yes … but I have been a widow for a long time … a very long time.

It’s ten years, I said. He died just before I was born.

She nodded. You don’t ask … she began.

I did not have to. I knew. In any case, before I could speak, she said: It’s Mr. Benedict Lansdon.

Even though I had known it must be he, a shock ran through me.

She said: You will be very fond of him, Rebecca. He is a most unusual man.

I did not speak. The answer to the first sentence was: Never. And the second: Yes, I know he is unusual. But I did not like unusual people. I liked them to be ordinary, understanding nice people.

Everything will be just as it was, she went on.

It can’t be, I said.

Well, there will be a little change … for the better, though. Oh, Rebecca, I’m so happy. I have loved him for a long time. He’s different from anyone I have ever known. When we were children we shared adventures and then he went away … and I met your father.

My father was a great man … a hero …

Yes, I know. We were happy together, but he is dead … and he would not want me to go on mourning him for ever. Rebecca, you are going to be happy. Everyone should have a father.

I have a father.

I mean one who is here with you … to help you … to advise you and love you.

"But I am not his daughter."

You will be his stepdaughter. Rebecca, don’t spoil this. I am so happy tonight. I never thought to be so happy in my life. You’ll get used to the idea. What are you reading?

Robinson Crusoe.

That’s exciting, isn’t it? I noticed Pedrek was reading it the other day.

I nodded.

She kissed me. I just wanted you to be the first to know. Goodnight, my darling.

She was faintly uneasy because I had cast a cloud over her happiness—but only a little one. I knew that she was thinking I was only a child and I was perhaps a little jealous and afraid of Benedict Lansdon coming between us.

It was natural, she was telling herself.

Perhaps I should have pretended to be pleased, but I could not be as deceitful as that.

The family were delighted. There was a dinner party at Uncle Peter’s to celebrate the engagement. The wedding was to be soon.

My grandparents would come up to London for the ceremony. They had written sending congratulations and expressing their pleasure in the forthcoming marriage. Uncle Peter was clearly delighted. He was fond of my mother and very proud of Benedict who had become so rich without any help from him. I think he cared more for him than his son Peterkin who had devoted his life to good works at the Mission, and Helena who had been such a perfect wife to Martin Hume.

It was rather different in our house where I was conscious of an atmosphere of brooding apprehension.

The servants did not speak to me about their fears but I used to listen shamelessly to their conversations because it was imperative that I should know what was in their minds. It was possible in a smallish house like ours to listen to talk and I made the most of it.

I heard Mr. and Mrs. Emery once. She was putting things in the linen cupboard and he was handing them to her. It was just outside my room and if the door were a little open—which I had contrived that it should be—it was possible for me to hear quite a bit.

She was saying: It don’t do to worry. We’ll know in good time.

There is this new house they’re getting. But if I know Mrs. Mandeville, she’s not the sort to forget them as has been good servants to her.

Oh, it’ll be all right if it’s left to her … but …

Why shouldn’t it be? She’ll be the mistress, won’t she?

Well, yes … I reckon he’ll leave all that sort of thing to her.

I doubt he’ll buy that house unless he gets in.

Oh, I don’t know. He’s been close before, hasn’t he? That means if he loses first time round he could win next. There’ll be a general election before long … bound to be. Yes, I reckon he’ll want that house now he’s been selected.

Do you think he’ll get into Parliament?

He seems the sort to get what he wants.

Don’t forget last time … a regular scandal that was.

I crept near to the door. I must not miss this. What scandal? I asked myself. Did my mother know of it?

Well, it was all cleared up, wasn’t it?

Sort of. He didn’t kill her. That’s what they thought at first.

But it turned out she took the stuff herself instead.

All nice and convenient, wasn’t it?

Convenient! Why, it lost him the seat, they said. He was all set to take it.

"Who knows? It was a Tory stronghold and he’s a Liberal."

But, but the Tories was getting really rattled. It looked like he was going to take it … make a record. The first time the Tories had been ousted for a hundred years or something.

But it didn’t happen.

No, his poor unwanted wife died in mysterious circumstances.

But I told you it was all right. He didn’t kill her.

I reckon it all worked out for the best. It kept the seat for the Tories.

Oh, you and your Tories. I’m a bit of a Liberal myself.

What do you know about it?

About as much as you do. There! That’ll be the lot. Come on. I’ve got the dinner to see to.

I crept away from the door.

I felt excited, and the same time full of misgiving.

He had been married before. His wife had died … mysteriously. His first wife! And my mother was proposing to become his second.

I wondered what I could do. Warn her? But she must know about that long-ago scandal. She ignored it. She was bemused. She was bewitched by him.

I wished people would talk to me. I knew it was no use asking the Emerys or either of the maids. They would not tell me.

There was only one thing I could do and that was call on Pedrek’s help. Together we might discover what it was all about.

He was eager to help and asked their butler with whom he was on very friendly terms; he was told that some time ago Benedict Lansdon had stood for election in Manorleigh and just before it took place his wife had died; she had been a quiet, rather nervous woman and he had been very friendly with Mrs. Grace Hume. It had been hinted that Benedict murdered his wife to get her out of the way. It was all rumor and nothing was proved at the time of the election, and if this had not all come out, Benedict Lansdon would almost certainly have won the seat. But he was defeated at the polls because of the scandal and lost his chance of becoming a Member of Parliament. A note was discovered later … which had been written by the wife before she died. In it she said she was taking her life because she was suffering from some uncurable disease and was beginning to be in great pain.

So he was exonerated, but it was too late for him to win the election and in any case he had gone out of politics.

So there was some secret in his past. And this was the man who was to marry my mother and take her away from me!

From then on it grew worse. I saw less of my mother. They were making plans for the wedding. Uncle Peter wanted a grand one.

There is nothing people like better than romance, he said. And if you are going to stand for Parliament, it is a good idea to get into the public eye … in the right way, of course.

That is just like Uncle Peter, my mother said, laughing. She was always laughing at that time. Personally I don’t care what sort of wedding it is.

Aunt Amaryllis sided with Uncle Peter. She always did.

Benedict Lansdon was in the process of buying the house at Manorleigh. My mother had taken me down to see it. It will be our home for much of the time, I imagine, she said. We shall have to nurse the constituency.

What of our house? I asked.

"Well, I think I shall sell it. We

Reviews for The Changeling

[decaturmamaof2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I never read this as a child, but I totally devoured it as an adult. Really well-done and stands the test of time. Martha's and Ivy's characterizations are so subtle yet vivid. And Alton Raible's illustrations of this edition really enhance the story.

[sophroniaborgia · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Martha and Ivy are two girls whose lives couldn't be more different. Martha is the misfit daughter of a prominent and successful family who, unable to find a place for herself in their high-achieving world, spends her time daydreaming and crying when confronted. Ivy comes from a family of drunks, delinquents and criminals, but spent her early childhood living with her aunt, who introduced her to magic and wonder. When the two meet at age seven, their creativity and imagination make them fast friends despite their backgrounds. Their friendship proves to be a buoy for them both as they grow to high school age, helping them to overcome challenges and separations until at last they realize their dreams.Zilpha Keatley Snyder was a wonderful children's writer who knew the power of imagination and how freeing it could be for kids who feel disconnected from the people and places around them. But she never forgets the real friendship that underlies the tales. It's the friendship between the girls, strengthened by their years developing the fantasy stories of the Tree People, that allow them to mature into people who will never be conventional but will be able to thrive in the world.

[tatiannasilverness · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Changeling is about two girls, Ivy Carson and Martha, who have make believe adventures. Ivy believes she is a changeling, which is a magical creature that has replaced an infant in another family. Ivy lives with another relative for most of the time and when she doesn't she lives with her parents in the same town as Martha. Ivy moves around as they grow up. Martha and Ivy have many adventures in the woods, which they call their kingdom. However, when Ivy must leave, she and Martha fight. Martha loses her best friend in the world and only gets her back after many years when Ivy returns. This shows that the theme is friendship is important and to be cherished. This book brings joy to all that read it and memories of childhoods. One major strength of this book is that it is written with clever and well thought out layers. The top layer is a fantasy of elves, witches, and, of course, changelings. But underneath, it is a story of a friendship between two girls that is very heartwarming. A weakness of this book is that the second layer isn't very clear. It can only be seen after lots of thought and even then it isn't certain that there even is a second layer. But the lesson is taught through the second layer, and without the second layer, there would be no theme. I liked the Changeling. It's for all ages and I would definitely reccomend it.

[saroz_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One of my very favorite children's books. Martha - a shy, withdrawn girl - befriends her next door neighbor, Ivy, who is anything but quiet. They grow up together, their friendship shifting and changing and ultimately fracturing over the years, but with the glue of Ivy's imagination always bringing them together. A lightly fantastical book, similar to but far better than (and written before) "Bridge to Terabithia." As always, Snyder has a great grasp on how children think, and the 'message' doesn't overpower the story. Also notable for having spawned Snyder's "Below the Root" series, which appears here as one of Ivy's imaginary worlds...

[lssian · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is one of the best books I ever read as a kid, I don't know how many times I read it. I love Snyder, and still reread her books to this day. This one in particular is a wonderful book about being yourself and bring brave about it - but never in an overt, Lifetime movie preachy way. I just know that this book gave me inspiration about just being me and ignoring social pressure. Highly recommended, especially for children.

[satyridae · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A re-read. Snyder's sure hand at the wheel gives this story a ring of truth and an immediacy flavored with the not-quite-supernatural. When I read it as a kid, I identified so closely with Ivy that I fancied myself a changeling too. Reading it as an adult, I have much more insight into both Ivy and me, and I still identify with her. I want to know what happened to her, where she's dancing now. A lovely, transcendent book.

[abigailadams26 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Writing a review for this treasured volume from my childhood seems impossible. Since first making the attempt, I have spent hours staring at the blank screen in front of me, have begun in a hundred different ways - "Some books aren't books at all, but mirrors..." / "Zilpha Keatley Snyder may not know it, but she wrote this book about me..." - but have always ended with the same admission of failure, with the same deletion of whatever facile comments I had typed, whatever little bits of text I had produced - text that had inevitably failed to capture the terrible beauty and power of The Changeling, its strange and elusive appeal, its unshakable hold on me. I am haunted by this book, and although I pride myself on being able to articulate even the most difficult of thoughts and emotions, I find it impossible to say why. Just as it once saved me, this seemingly simple children's novel now defeats me. Again and again. I am too close to it, perhaps...I grew up in a beautiful old house on a hill, with a rundown old carriage house behind it, where my sisters and I were wont to play in younger days. A dreamer, always, I lived in my own world, dividing my time between the pages of whatever book I was devouring, and my imaginary (year-round) outdoor games. Naturally, I had a country of my own - ironically, given my childhood ignorance of the word "arcane," it was named Arcania - with its own intricate history, customs and culture. I spent hours creating the Arcanian language, and crafting its script (sadly, all lost to me today), with its superfluity of vowel forms. Arcania was my retreat and my stronghold, in a world that was beginning - just as I was starting to search for meaning in it - to make no sense, and was as real to me as anything I experienced in my more mundane, "workday" life.No author has ever captured - for me - that reality of the imaginary, that power of childhood make-believe, with the same skill as Zilpha Keatly Snyder, in The Changeling. The story of two very different young girls - shy crybaby Martha, so worried about fitting in with her successful family, and wildly idiosyncratic Ivy Carson, daughter of the town's local criminal element - whose friendship is the salvation of both, it perfectly embodies one of the key realities of my own childhood: the role of imagination, and of the internal world, in creating a safe place in a decidedly unsafe existence. Like Ivy and Martha, whose created world was known as Green Sky - a world that Snyder would later use, in creating her brilliant dystopian Green Sky trilogy (Below the Root, And All Between, Until the Celebration) - I too enacted a complicated series of rituals and plays surrounding my imagined world. Like them, this had extraordinary meaning for me, and is, to this day, terribly precious to me.One of my favorite works of literature, of ANY kind, The Changeling is a book that has become entwined with my memories of my childhood, to the point that I cannot separate it out. I have lived in this book, as surely as Ivy and Martha did, and while I wouldn't venture to guarantee that it will speak to every young reader as it did (and does) to me, can readily attest to the fact that every word in it is true.

[cheryl_in_cc_nv · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I think I may have read this as a child - I know I read others by Snyder, and the Sch. mm pb cover looks familiar.  I think it may have had a subtle influence on me, and helped me to survive adolescence, just as knowing Ivy helped Martha (and, probably, vice versa).  In any case, it's one of Snyder's best (at least among those I've read, and imo) and that's high praise.  Beautifully written, gorgeous story.  How does one cope with being unlike one's family and peers?  How does one get along when nobody else cares?  How does one face growing up, when an imperfect childhood seems better than getting boring, responsible, and solid?

Btw, the Tree People game here is developed further in Snyder's Below the Root.  And the very best Ive read by Snyder is the very short The Princess and the Giants, which is dependent on its illustrations and is therefore sometimes dismissed as 'just a picture-book.'  I must try harder to find more by the author, as I see by her page here that she is much more prolific than I realized.

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