Free My Sister Celia by Mary Burchell Page B

been wrong, and yet I knew somehow she was my sister. And then, when the explanation tumbled out, all unawares as it were, I could have gone mad with joy.”
    “Yes, I understand. And did the Vanners—the older couple, I mean—go mad with joy too?”
    “No. That would have been expecting too much, you know,” Freda said. “They—he was very nice about it, and, although I think Mrs. Vanner will take some time to get used to the position, she hadn ’ t any objection to raise, once it was clear.”
    “I see. And what ’ s the general result? Will you be going to live there as another daughter or —”
    “No, of course not! I have a life and an identity of my own, you know,” Freda protested energetically. “I ’ m delighted to find that I ’ m Celia ’ s sister. But I ’ m also myself. And the Vanners, on their side, chose to adopt Celia, years ago—but there ’ s no reason why they should have me wished on to them as a sort of inevitable appendage, just because I happen to exist.”
    He laughed at that.
    “I suppose that ’ s logical,” he agreed.
    “We shall see a good deal of each other, naturally,” Freda went on. “I shall go there at weekends and —”
    “You won ’ t be able to,” he put in.
    “How do you mean—I shan ’ t be able to?” She looked taken aback.
    “You ’ ll be at the cottage,” he reminded her. “Remember? I t ’ s going to be your weekend home.”
    “It will be—very often,” Freda assured him, with dignity, “and Celia is planning to come down with me sometimes, which will be great fun. But when she isn ’ t visiting me at my home, I may well be visiting her at hers.”
    And, if Laurence Clumber didn ’ t look particularly crushed after this statement, he should have done.
    It was a beautiful drive down, through the blossoming countryside, and when they came within sight of Crowmain, just before noon, Freda was secretly quite sorry that the expedition was over. But it was not the moment to linger regretfully over any experience shared with Laurence Clumber. Now was the time to be businesslike, if courteous, and show that she was in no doubt of her own next move.
    “Would you kindly drop me at the offices of Jason & Merry, in the High Street?” she said. “Or will that be out of your way?”
    “It won ’ t be out of my way at all,” he assured her. “But can ’ t I drive you right to the cottage?”
    “No, thank you.” Somehow, the idea of herself and Laurence Clumber together in the vicinity of the cottage seemed to suggest some odd possibility of danger. “I have to call in and see Mr. Merry first. And then I shall probably be looking in on Mr. Token. After that, I ’ ll walk along to the—to my—cottage. It isn ’ t far.”
    “Very well. How and when do you propose to go back to town?”
    “By train and bus—and this evening,” Freda informed him categorically.
    “I could drive you over to Dalling,” he offered. “It would save you a roundabout bus journey.”
    “You really mustn ’ t trouble yourself. I —”
    “It wouldn ’ t be any trouble.”
    “But I don ’ t know yet which train I shall take,” Freda said, with the uneasy conviction that the more she accepted favours from Laurence Clumber, the more she weakened her own position in some intangible way.
    “Very well.” Unexpectedly, he abandoned the argument, just as they arrived outside the offices of Jason & Merry. And, such is the contrariness of human nature, Freda immediately felt rather regretful about having rejected the evening drive to Dalling.
    However, she bade him a brisk but pleasant goodbye, having thanked him for the lift. And, without a backward look—though this required a slight effort on her part—she entered the offices of Crowmain ’ s genial house-agent.
    “Good morning, Miss Mersham.” Mr. Merry came forward. “Very pleasant to see you down here again so soon. Bill Token and his men have made a start on the cottage, but everything ’ s a bit at