The Black Swan by Philippa Carr Page A

to pass. There were letters from Belinda, one for me, one for Celeste. By the time they reached us she was on her way.
    I visited Manorleigh briefly, but I felt I wanted to be in London. I no longer looked fearfully out of the window at night. I had done so during the first weeks and been confronted always by the empty street.
    I had one or two sessions with the solicitors who talked at great length about the trust and what should be done about that money that was now virtually mine. I could not give my thoughts entirely to such matters; they seemed of little importance when compared with my fears for Joel.
    It had been more than a month since his disappearance and a melancholy possibility had occurred to me that I might never see him again.
    I visited the Greenhams from time to time. They continued to be hopeful, but I sometimes wondered whether that was a pretense. I saw Gerald once and he was still obsessed by his brother’s disappearance.
    Time was going on.
    Celeste said that we should bestir ourselves. She looked upon me as her responsibility. She said on one occasion that girls in my position had a season and she was sure it was what my father had been planning for me.
    “Though I believe,” she added, “that he wanted to shelve the matter for a while. He was afraid someone would marry you and take you away from him.”
    I put my hand over hers and we were both too emotional to speak.
    She recovered herself and said, “Well, with all this hanging over us, we couldn’t possibly do it. We’ll have to wait.”
    “I don’t need a season, Celeste,” I said. “I should hate it. If … when … Joel comes back, we shall marry … he and I … and seasons are not for married women.”
    “He must come back,” said Celeste.
    And we looked at each other sadly.
    “And,” went on Celeste, “soon there will be Belinda.”
    “A season for Belinda,” I murmured. “The two of us together.”
    It was surprising how often Belinda cropped up in our conversation.
    And then one spring day, the African Star sailed into Tilbury with Belinda on it.
    Celeste and I went to Tilbury to meet her. I knew her at once. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with something of Leah’s beauty, and an indefinable touch of the exotic which perhaps came from her French ancestors. Her main characteristic was that immense vitality which had always been apparent when she was a child. She sparkled with a love of life. She had not changed and she was very attractive.
    We were introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Wilberforce, who seemed rather relieved to hand over their charge. Not that Belinda would regard herself as such. For her they had not been guardians but traveling companions.
    She rushed at me in the old exuberant way.
    “Lucie … Lucie … the same old Lucie! I should have picked you out anywhere. Oh, it is wonderful to see you.”
    Celeste regarded her rather shyly.
    “Welcome home, Belinda,” she said.
    “Well, thank you,” replied Belinda, and kissed her. “I’m so glad to be here.”
    Celeste turned to the Wilberforces and thanked them for looking after Belinda.
    “Actually,” Belinda informed us, “it was I who looked after them, wasn’t it?” She smiled archly at Mr. Wilberforce who returned the smile indulgently. Already I had had a glimpse of her power to charm. “We had some rough water,” she went on to explain. “Poor Mrs. Wilberforce. She wasn’t the only one. Half the ship was prostrate. Mr. Wilberforce and I were almost the only ones who were not.”
    “The Bay,” murmured Mrs. Wilberforce. “Well, we must be getting along, I suppose.”
    “You must come and visit us,” said Celeste. “We want to thank you properly.”
    “Belinda has our address.”
    Good-byes were said and arrangements made for Belinda’s luggage to be collected and brought to the house; then with Belinda seated between Celeste and me, we rode along to the house.
    Belinda kept pointing out landmarks that she remembered. She was clearly delighted to be