Daughters of England

The Dower House

My mother died on the first day of spring in the year 1678. I suppose it should not have been unexpected, for she had been ill for some time, but it was a great shock to us all nevertheless, and we were a bewildered and desolate household when the blow fell.

We had been so close, all of us, my mother, Maggie, Christobel and myself. Even the servants had been like members of the family. I had grown up in that happy atmosphere and, with the thoughtlessness of the young, expected it to go on forever.

The other day, when I was sorting out my mother's possessions—a task which I found heartrending, with its perpetual reminders of the past, and which I could not attempt until some little time had elapsed after her death—I found her notebooks in which she had recorded the events of her life from the time when she was living on the estate which her father managed, and her coming to London with Kitty Carslake and becoming an actress. I read, too, of her meeting with my father and how she went through a mock marriage with him. I was glad that I had already heard of this, for he had told me of it.

And later the urge came to me to continue with the story, and when I am old I shall read it and I shall be able to recall her as clearly as she was to me all those years before.

Perhaps, though, I shall not carry this out. But at the moment, I tell myself, I will at least attempt it.

I can never think back to the time of her death without experiencing a deep emotion. I recall so clearly that terrible realization that I should see her no more and that a life which had gone on smoothly for years could suddenly change so tragically.

Poor Maggie was completely devastated. For a time she lost that bold and rather domineering attitude toward the world. She was just bewildered and utterly miserable. I understood her feelings, for I shared them.

Christobel was a great comfort to us both at that time.

She was practical and made us eat when we had no desire to do so. She made us consider the everyday life around us which must continue, whatever tragedy we had to face. We were indeed a house of mourning.

About two weeks after my mother's death Lord Rosslyn called. He was shut in the parlor with Maggie and was there for over an hour. I was very disappointed when he left without seeing me. I stood at my window, watching him go, feeling deflated and hurt.

Almost immediately there was a tap on my door and Martha came in. She said Maggie wanted to see me at once.

I ran down to the parlor. Maggie was sitting there, looking very solemn.

"Come and sit down, Kate," she said. "I have something to say to you."

I did so and she looked at me very sadly, and went on: "You have known for some little time that Lord Rosslyn is your father. You will also know that he lives in a very different manner from the way we do."

"Yes," I said.

"I suppose, too, you have some idea of the nature of his ... er ... relationship with your mother. You are very young as yet."

"I shall be eleven in June."

She smiled at me rather wanly. "Still young, Kate. But you are grown up for your years."

"I do understand what happened, Maggie."

"Well, it has created this unusual situation. If your mother had lived ..." Her voice quivered and she was unable to go on for a moment or so, but she quickly recovered her calmness and resumed. "It would have been a different matter then. But she is no longer with us. There is only myself."

I went to her and put my arms about her.

"Oh, Maggie, dearest Maggie, do not say only. While I have you I shall be all right ... and I have Christobel too."

"My dear child, life does not stand still. I am getting old and more feeble every week. That brings me to what I have to say. Lord Rosslyn, your father, wants to take you into his care."

I stared at her in amazement. "Leave here!" I said. "Oh, Maggie!" And I clung to her.

"He will not snatch you away against your will. Do not be afraid. He knows what we mean to each other. He will not come here and carry you off forcibly. He would want you to go to him willingly."

"But how? When?"

"We have to think about this, Kate. We have to be sensible. You know how I care for you."

"Oh, Maggie, dear Maggie, and I for you."

"I know that, my dear. But look at me." She held out her hand. The fingers were enlarged and misshapen. "We cannot defy time, dear child. You see, it is catching up with me. I shall not be here forever."

I was staring at her in horror. What did she mean? I had just lost my mother. Was she going to die too? A feeling of intense loneliness came over me.

She went on: "There would be a home for you. It would be different from this. You know how careful we have been, and you have seen how quickly life can change. It is doing that all the time. This is your home. It always has been and it is dear to you. You are young to have to face such reality, but it is there nonetheless. We do not know from one day to another what will happen. Your father cares for you. He is a rich man and can do a great deal for you. He is willing to do this. But he does not want to force you to leave here if you do not wish it."

I hugged her. "Maggie, dearest Maggie, I am going to stay here with you. I shall look after you. I will care for you."

"Dear child, that would not please me at all. What I want more than anything—what your mother would have wanted—is to see you settled, your future secure. Your father can do far more for you than any of us here could ever have done. He understands how you feel about this, your home, but you must think of what he offers. He will take you away from here. Oh, it does not mean that we shall never see each other again. He will bring you on visits to London and then you will come to see me. You will live a different sort of life—a life which is more suited to his daughter. It will be better for you. Far, far better than anything you could know here."

"To leave you and Christobel?"

"No, not Christobel. Christobel would go with you. She would remain your governess and companion."

"But, Maggie, I could not leave you."

"Dear child, I am getting old, you know."

"That is all the more reason why I should not leave you."

"It is what your mother would have wanted for you."

"She would never have left you."

"Before your mother came here with Kitty I was alone, Kate."

"You cannot be alone now."

"Your father does not ask you to decide immediately. He wants you to think about it. He knows that you are sensible; he also knows that you are affectionate. But he wants you to look at this clearly. He wants you to have something of the life you would have as his daughter."

"But it is not quite the same, is it? Not like being his real daughter."

"You are his daughter, whichever way it is considered," said Maggie. "He is fully aware of that and he is fond of you. You might decide not to go to him now, but in the future I am sure you would come to regret that."

"Why did he not see me? Why did he go away like that?"

"He wanted you to make the decision yourself. He wants you to go to him freely."

"Perhaps he is hoping I will not and he will then be released from the responsibility."

"Kate! You say you will be eleven in June. You talk like a cynical woman of twenty-five."

"But if he wanted me badly he would have told me himself. He would have persuaded me."

"He may do that. But what he very much wants is for you to go to him of your own accord."

"He forgets that that means leaving you."

"He does not forget it at all. That is why he wants you to decide."

"I never thought of this. I thought ..."

Maggie took my hand and looked into my eyes.

She said: "Listen, Kate. I am old. I grow older with every month. I shall not be here forever. You have lost your mother. She was not old, but she has left us now. Life changes all the time."

"Maggie, you don't want me to go?"

"Oh, my love, you know how much you mean to me. But what I want most is what is best for you. I think of the life that will be yours here when I am gone, and I think of what might be yours if you go to your father."

"Maggie, Maggie," I cried. "I cannot leave you."

She stroked my hair.

"We will think about it, Kate. There is no need for a hasty decision."

Christobel talked of it. I thought about it a great deal. Part of me wanted to go to my father. The prospect excited me. He had attracted me from the first time I was aware of him, when he had saved me from being trampled to death. He had seemed so noble and all-powerful then; and he made me feel that I was important to him. I could not explain why I had felt so excited, but there was no denying I was. I knew that my mother had not been very pleased, but I put that down to the fact that she had been so worried because I had nearly had a very bad accident.

Then, of course, there had been those visits to his lodgings.

Christobel had said: "I want to take you to see someone who is eager to meet you."

I had been excited, of course.

She had gone on: "It is rather secret. It*s hard to explain. I'll tell you about it later."

Then we went into that house which was called his lodgings. It was much grander than our house and there I met the man who had saved me from the surging crowd.

It was like a fairy story. I could not believe that it was true. I did not know he was my father then. I learned that later. He talked to me a great deal, and I suppose I was flattered by his attention. Then when we left Christobel said it was a secret visit really. She thought I would like to see the man who had rescued me. But it would be better if I said nothing to my mother or to Maggie, or, for that matter, to anyone at home.

I was puzzled. I said my mother would be very grateful to my rescuer. She would be pleased that we had met again. She herself would want to say thank you to him.

Christobel said there were some things people of my age did not understand, and she would know when the time was right to tell my mother, but would I trust her when she said it was not yet that time.

I was very mystified, but I knew that Christobel was very clever, so I supposed she was right. In any case, it seemed to add something to the excitement of those visits that they must remain secret.

Now I understand. I have read my mother's notebooks. It was something very bad that he did to her. But I believed that he was very sorry for it and we are taught that we must forgive those who trespass against us when they are truly contrite. And I knew my father was that.

Christobel talked to me about my going to my father.

She said: "You have this big decision to make, Kate. It would not be wise to miss such an opportunity."

"What of Maggie?" I said. "How could I leave her now? She was so fond of my mother, and she has now lost her. If we went too, she would have no one."

"Martha and Jane will look after her."

"But she would be so lonely."

Christobel looked at me sadly. "You are very young, Kate," she said.

"I could not leave Maggie now."

So I stayed on, but even Maggie said I should go.

My eleventh birthday came and went.

Christobel said: "Do you know, Maggie worries a great deal? I think she would be happier if she knew you were to have a life suitable for your father's daughter."

"I am chiefly my mother's daughter," I said, "and this was her home."

My father visited the house.

He said: "Kate, when are you coming to me?"

"I cannot leave Maggie," I said.

He smiled at me rather sadly. "You are a good child," he said. "And I rejoice in that. But this is no place for you. It was different when your mother was alive."

"But there is still Maggie."

"She is anxious about you. I think she would be happier if you came to me."

I stared at him in amazed horror.

He said: "She would miss you, of course. But she is worrying about you all the time. If you came to me, you could visit her. I come to London. I would bring you to see her. She would know that your future was assured and that you were living in a manner suitable for my daughter. Christobel would come with you. Talk to Maggie about it. You will see that I am right."

I did talk to Maggie. I said: "My father and Christobel are saying that you are anxious about me. Maggie, I will not leave you unless you do not want me to stay."

"Dear Kate," she said, "indeed I want you to stay. But you see how it is with me. I find it more and more difficult to get about. Martha is so good to me. But as the days pass I grow more and more feeble. It would be a relief to know that you are in a good home."

"This is my home," I said.

"And always will be. Your father says that if you go to him, when he comes to London he will bring you here and your old room will be ready for you."

"Is that what you want, Maggie?"

"Yes. Because it is what is best for us all."

"But we have always been together, you and I."

"And I shall always be there. You can always come to me. But sometimes in life we have to make decisions and, when it is an important one, it is very necessary to make the right one. Think about it."

I did think about it. Every day Christobel warned me of what I was missing. She had educated me beyond most girls of my age, but I needed to be in different surroundings. "Background," she called it. It was very necessary to a girl's upbringing. I was undecided. I wavered continually. The prospect of going to entirely new surroundings excited me. There were days when I said to myself: I will go. It is what they all think is best, even Maggie. But is that more for my sake than hers? They all thought I should go. Even Martha. She said to me: "You know. Mistress Maggie frets about you. She'd miss you something terrible, but in her heart she'd be relieved. Jane and me, we'll see she's all right, and you could get word to her how you're getting on."

Then I would think of Maggie, alone, sitting in her chair, thinking of that Kitty of whom I had heard so much, and Mother ... both gone. And now I, too, was thinking of leaving her.

There was a great deal of talk at that time. It appeared that one August day, when the King was walking in St. James's Park with his spaniels and a few companions, a man named Christopher Kirby presented him with a paper stating that a Popish plot was afoot. The Jesuits were offering ten thousand pounds to anyone who would kill the King. His assassination was to be followed by a massacre of Protestants so that Catholic rule could be reestablished in England.

The King might shrug this aside, but within a few weeks the Popish Plot was being discussed everywhere and the names of Titus Oates and Israel Tonge, who claimed to have discovered this plot, were on everyone's lips.

There was a great fuss about all this. People stood about in the streets, but I was too concerned with my own affair to pay much attention to it.

Autumn would soon be with us. The days were growing shorter. The streets were full of protesters against the Papists, and, as Martha said, there were many villainous people about, taking advantage of the unrest generated by the Popish Plot.

Maggie said to me one day at the end of September. "Kate, I think it would be best if you delayed no longer your going to your father."

"Maggie, is that what you really want?"

"You know I love to have you here, but I am anxious about you. Your father deceived your mother, but I think he wishes to make up for what he did. We all make mistakes in life. I think he is fond of you, Kate. He can look after you as I cannot. He can do so much more for you."

"I can look after myself and you, Maggie."

"I know, my dear child, and I shall never forget how you have clung to me since ... since we lost your mother. But it is an anxiety to me, Kate. I think I should be happier knowing that you were having the sort of life that is due to you."

I was silent.

I tried to suppress a certain exultation which insisted on rising within me. Maggie was helping me to convince myself that I must go.

And I knew it was what I wanted.

And so I came to the Rosslyn Dower House.

Christobel could not conceal her pleasure as we traveled westwards on our way to Somerset. It was, after all, her home. This was what she had always thought would be right for me.

I had been very sad to leave Maggie, and the house where I had lived all my life. But it was now full of sad memories and, as Christobel said, I had to grow away from that. I must not go on grieving forever. It was the last thing my mother would have wanted.

My father had sent a coach in which we were to make the journey. It was drawn by four horses and there was the driver and another whose place was at the back of the coach. There was an outrider too, who rode on ahead, to make sure that the road was adequate for the coach and to spot any lurking highwaymen. The outrider carried a blunderbuss and sword. These men were not only our protectors but our servants. We stayed at inns every night and they made sure that there was cheese and cake, wine and beer in the coach, in case we should have some mishap and be unable to reach an inn by nightfall.

It took us more than a week to reach our destination, a week of new adventures and excitement for me. It stopped my brooding constantly on having left Maggie, which I would otherwise have done. It was my first experience of the hazards and adventures of traveling.

In due course we arrived at the Dower House. It was some hundred years old—a red brick building with creeper-covered walls. It was close to the gate leading to the Rosslyn estate, of which the Dower House was only a very small part, but to my eyes it was very grand.

Stiff and fatigued after long hours in the coach, we alighted.

The door was opened by a plump lady dressed in a blue and white wool gown.

"Welcome, welcome to Rosslyn Dower," she said. "I am Isabel Longton. I look after everything in the Dower House. We have been expecting you for the last two days. Ah, these journeys ... I trust that yours was not too exhausting. And no need to ask if it was a safe journey, for here you are. So, you are Kate and, of a surety, I know Christobel. Come along in. I have ordered mulled wine to be sent down for you when you arrived. First of all you will need a warming drink ... and something to eat, I'll swear. The others will be down to greet you as soon as they hear you have arrived. Bring in the baggage, Jim. You must be chilled ... they will have something for you in the kitchens."

She went on: "Christobel, I have put you in the room next to Kate's since you will be staying here and you two will be working together."

"Thank you. Mistress Longton," said Christobel. "That will be very pleasant."

"I dare say you will be wanting to ride over to Featherston to see your family very soon."

"I thought of going tomorrow."

"Oh, yes. They will be expecting you soon, as they know you are on your way. You will want to introduce Kate to them, I dare swear."

"I think that would be a good idea. Do you not, Kate?"

"Oh yes, indeed," I said. "I am longing to meet them."

At that moment two men came into the room—one about seventeen, the other I imagined in his mid-thirties.

"Ah," said Mistress Longton, "here are Luke and Master Roger Camden. Master Camden is Luke's tutor. They are the best of friends, are you not, you two? And this is Mistress Kate Standish, who is coming to live here. You know Christobel, of course."

They bowed and regarded me with interest—as I expect I did them. I thought I should have asked Christobel more questions about this household, for she seemed to know them all very well, as I suppose she would, having lived so close.

I had expected to be greeted by my father. Where was he, I wondered? This was not even the house where he lived. It seemed that it was the Dower House which was to be my home.

The promised mulled wine arrived.

"I thought," said Mistress Longton, "that you would want to go to your rooms as soon as you arrived and I would have something sent up for you to eat there as it is rather late. Then you could have a good rest and we could introduce you to the house and everything tomorrow. I know what these journeys are. You long for nothing but your bed."

The young man Luke said to me: "I shall be your guide."

"Thank you," I replied. "It is very kind of you."

"Indeed, it will be a pleasure," was his comment.

"Christobel and Kate are already good friends of long standing," said Mistress Longton. "Christobel has been acting as Kate's governess in London."

"I am sure that was a very satisfactory arrangement," said the tutor.

Christobel yawned.

"Oh dear," said Mistress Longton. "You are tired. Would you like another glass of wine? No? Well, I am going to take you off to your rooms now. I know you gentlemen are very disappointed, but the hour is late and the young ladies are very, very tired. You both know what a jolting poor travelers have to suffer, especially on these country roads. Come, then. You will have a great deal of time after tonight to get acquainted with each other."

Christobel said: "I must say I am ready for bed."

"They will have taken your baggage up. But you won't want to unpack tonight, I know. I hope you can lay your hands on what you need. If not, perhaps I can help."

"I shall just take out a few night things. I believe I can manage that. Can you, Kate?"

"Oh yes, I am sure I can."

"Then," said Mistress Longton, "let me light you to bed."

I felt mildly bewildered. There was so much I wanted to discover about Luke and Master Roger Camden, and I was too excited for sleep, but it was true I was physically exhausted, and I was sure Mistress Longton was right to send us off to bed. I had an idea that she was usually right.

There was a ewer and basin in the room, so I was able to wash away a little of the grime of the journey. I found the few things I should need and put on my nightgown and got into bed.

Through the latticed window the light of a half moon penetrated the room. The oak beams of the ceiling were thick and the ceiling sloped a little, as did the floor. The bed was a four-poster, and I imagined it had stood there for all of a hundred years. There were a few chairs and a big oak chest, and the table on which stood the basin and ewer.

So this was my home. How different from Maggie's house! I felt a twinge of nostalgia. It was different also from what I had expected, and to be confronted with strangers when I had been expecting my father was a little disconcerting.

There was a light tap on my door.

"Come in," I said, and as I had expected Christobel entered.

"Not asleep?" she said. "I thought you would not be. I'm very tired, but I can't sleep either. I keep feeling as though I'm jolting along in that coach. Kate, you seemed a bit bewildered. I should have told you what I knew about this place we are coming to."

"Did you know the young man would be here?"

"Oh yes, Luke has been here for several years."

"Who is he?"

She was silent for a while. Then she said: "Perhaps you are too young to know of these matters. But you know something, do you not, so you should know the rest. A little knowledge can be more confusing than no knowledge at all."

"Please tell me, Christobel."

"It is late tonight. You need to sleep."

"I do not think I can. It is all so strange ... so different. I thought I was going to my father's house."

"Well, you have. The Dower House belongs to him."

"But he is not here."

"No, of course not. He will be at Rosslyn Manor."

"Where is that?"

"On this estate. It is a large property in this neighborhood and the Manor is about a mile away."

"And my father lives there, and I am to live in the Dower House?"

"It seems a reasonable plan. It might be that it would not be quite de rigueur to have you living in the house with Lady Rosslyn."

"Lady Rosslyn?"

"There is naturally a Lady Rosslyn."

"His wife. Of course. I ... see."

"There is much that you do not see. They have been married for about twenty years, I believe."

"And Luke? Who is Luke?"

"Another such as you are. He is Lord Rosslyn's son, as you are his daughter."

"So he is my brother?"

"Half-brother, I believe it is called."

"And he lives in the Dower House?"

She nodded. "Lord Rosslyn is what is known as a somewhat eccentric gentleman, and eccentric gentlemen do strange things."

"What strange things?"

"Like bringing a family, which society would say he should never have had, to live at the Dower House."

"You mean me ..."

"You and Luke. I suppose one might have been brought into a family in such a way, but two ... and openly ... well, that is Lord Rosslyn."

"So you think I should not have come?"

"Indeed I do not. I think you should be here. It is due to you. I am merely saying that it takes an eccentric gentleman to act in such a way. Shall we talk in the morning?"

"I shall not sleep. Shall you? More than anything I want to know about the people here."

"I understand. It is to be your home. So it is natural that you will want to know, and you will sleep the better for knowing. I think you have been very fortunate to come here and live as your father's daughter should. Mind you, it is not as though Lady Rosslyn was your mother, but it is the next best thing. The Rosslyns are a proud family. They have been in possession of Rosslyn Manor since the days of the first Henry, the son of the Conqueror, and that is a very long time ago. There have been Rosslyns at the Manor for five hundred years and the line is unbroken ... until now. This is regarded as a great tragedy. Kate, you have lived in London, close to the theatrical world. I think that has made you old for your years. One forgets how young you are. But there are times when I feel I should not be speaking of these matters to you."

"Oh, please, do not say that, Christobel. I want to know. I have to know."

"You are right. It is best for you to understand these things, even if ... oh well, no matter. The truth is that the Rosslyn heirs have always, through the centuries, had their wives and husbands chosen for them. They are proud of their family. They must be of the right kind, you understand. Many men and women marry for love. Not the Rosslyns. They have their lovers, but not perhaps in marriage. The right stock is necessary and they will tell you it has worked well through the ages, until now. The Rosslyns have prospered because they are such perfect beings." She laughed aloud. "It was different with the Carews, my family. We have had some disreputable characters in our family. And it has not lasted in the same way as the Rosslyns. Other names have crept in. Cousins have inherited. And now this fate has fallen on the Rosslyns."

She laughed. "You will say, 'What does it matter?' But it does matter to them. I cannot help it, Kate, it amuses me, but it is not amusing to Lord Rosslyn—nor to Lady Rosslyn. She is the one at fault. She has betrayed the Rosslyns. And in what way? Because she cannot bear a child."

"It is not her fault."

"Indeed not, poor lady. I'll warrant she has prayed till she is hoarse, and perverse Heaven has turned its back on her. The fault can only lie in her, for look, there is Master Luke, a proof of Rosslyn manhood—and little Mistress Kate, another—and no doubt others of whom we have not yet heard."

"What are you telling me, Christobel?"

"I am half asleep. I talk without thinking. I shall see my family tomorrow and I am envious, I suppose. Why should everything have gone wrong for us and the Rosslyns have so much?"

"You were telling me of a tragedy which has befallen them."

"Kate, my family has lost a large part of our estate ... it is tottering to ruin and there are the Rosslyns, established in what must be one of the most flourishing estates in the country, bemoaning their sad fate because there is no legitimate heir to leave the place to. My lord will have to be dead before that happens, in any case."

"So this tragedy is simply that Lord Rosslyn's wife cannot have any children to leave the estate to."

"That is so. This wonderful, prosperous place will have to go to someone—well, not exactly outside the family, but on the distant edge of it, a distant relative, a remote cousin, usually a poor relation. Rosslyn, despairing of getting a family through the conventional channels, is bringing those obtained in others to live close to his home. Now, is that for his own satisfaction, because he loves his illegitimate offspring, or is it to bring home to his wife how much she has failed him?"

I was silent. I looked at Christobel. Her eyes looked a little glazed. I thought: She is very, very tired.

"Christobel, you ought to go back to your bed."

"So I should," she said, but she did not move from her position on mine.

She went on, as though to herself: "Of course, he might have a conscience. He might think he should care for these children of his. I'll swear these are not the only ones. Perhaps we shall have a little colony of them here. He and Lady R. are scarcely on speaking terms, so they say. She is very angry about this Dower House family."

"But I have only just come."

"That will not please her. I was talking of Luke. He has been here for a number of years. He must be about seventeen or eighteen years old now. He came here when he was ten. Of course, he is a boy ... a double reproach." She yawned. "Well, you will learn all about it, very soon. I have just given you a little insight."

"You are so tired, Christobel. We both are."

She stood up rather unsteadily. She leaned forward and, taking my face in her hands, kissed me.

"You are a dear girl, Kate," she said. "I am very fond of you. You will adjust yourself, I know. There will be difficulties, but I am sure it is the best way for you. Good night."

She left me less prepared for sleep than I had been before her coming.

She was very unlike herself. I was sure she had drunk too much of that mulled wine. It had been so warm and comforting, and we were both very, very tired.

When I was dressed next morning and knocked at her door she called "Come in," in quite a brisk voice.

She was up and looked comparatively fresh.

"It seems you have slept well after all," I said.

"After a while. I was so exhausted. I am afraid I drank a little too much of that wine last night. It was so soothing and warming. I think I talked a great deal." She frowned and looked at me questioningly.

"It was just about the people here ... all that I had to know."

She grimaced. "Well, it is rather an unusual arrangement. But quite rational, when you come to think of it."

"What shall we do today?"

"Settle in. When your father appears he will no doubt give his instructions. We shall certainly continue with lessons, for you are young yet, my dear. But today I want to see my family. They will have heard we have arrived, I am sure. You would be surprised how fast news travels here. Of course Luke will want to get to know you and he'll show you round—he loves this place. But I do want you to meet my family. They will be very eager to meet you. I've told them about you, of course."

"You have not told me about them."

"It will be better for you to make your own judgments."

"Judgments?"

"Oh, just a manner of speaking. Well, I shall go over to Featherston Manor this morning. It is not very far—on the edge of the Rosslyn estate, but that is very big. I should like to take you with me."

"And I should love to come."

"Well, why not? As long as you have not had a summons to await the coming of his lordship, I think it would be an excellent idea. Come along, let us go down and spy out the land."

In the dining room Mistress Longton was seated at the table.

She greeted us warmly and trusted we had slept well. We assured her that we had after a while, and we sat down to partake of meat pie and ale which a servant put before us.

"I dare swear you will not be at your lessons this morning,'* said Mistress Longton. "You will need to recover from your journey and to see something of this place."

"I was planning to see my family this morning," said Christobel.

"But of course. It is long since they have seen you and they have doubtless heard you are here, so will be expecting you. One of the men was on some business near there. He is bound to have seen someone from the Manor and he would have passed on the news."

"I was telling Kate how fast news travels even here."

"It's true. You must certainly go and see them."

"They want to meet Kate."

"Well, why not take her with you? I am sure you will find suitable mounts in the stables."

Christobel looked at me and nodded. "That will be pleasant, will it not, Kate?"

"I should enjoy it very much."

Christobel said: "They will know at Rosslyn Manor that we are here."

"I believe that Lord Rosslyn is not there at this time," Mistress Longton said.

Christobel looked relieved. "Well then," she said, "we will go and visit my home this morning, Kate."

One of the grooms found what he thought to be suitable horses for us and we set out. I was something of a novice and a very mild-mannered steed had been found for me. She was not so young, we were told, but was good for hacking round the lanes, too lazy to get up to tricks ... just the sort to suit a beginner at the game. The fact was, it was only since my mother had died that I had been given riding lessons. Christobel and I had gone off to stables in the village of Kensington where I had taken some lessons, so although I was not a stranger to horses, I was by no means a practiced horsewoman. Christobel said that would soon change now we were in the country.

"We'll take it very slowly," she went on, "and trust your Lively Lady will not live up to her name, which is hardly likely. I think It must have been given to her m her extreme youth and that was quite a number of years ago."

Rosslyn Manor lay before us. It was most impressive, with that look of rock-like endurance which was a feature of its period. Its round arches and cylindrical columns looked as though they could stand another five hundred years without strain.

I said: "It is very grand. I am not surprised the Rosslyns are proud of it and want to keep it."

"Some people set great store by such things, and the Rosslyns apparently do."

I thought how strange it was to belong—even in a furtive sort of way—to such a family. I was reminded of cozy evenings in Maggie's parlor, sitting round the fire with my mother and Maggie, and Martha's coming in with Jane. I felt another of those sudden waves of nostalgia which pierced the excitement of my new experiences and would not be dismissed.

"You will find Featherston Manor far less grand," Christobel said. "Rosslyn Manor is the big house round here. Featherston would have been considered very pleasant if Rosslyn were not there to remind us how insignificant we really are."

We rode on for some way. "This is our land now," Christobel informed me.

We came out into a lane. There was an almost derelict house before us and I heard a voice and realized that men were working there.

They glanced at us and one of them separated himself from the rest and cried out: "Chris!"

Then he ran towards us and, putting his hands on Christobel's horse, laughed up at her.

He was not exactly handsome, but I thought he had one of the pleasantest faces I had ever seen.

He was laughing, showing good strong teeth, and his thick hair was in disorder. There was a smudge of dirt on his forehead; his eyes were light blue, and I think it was the expression of sheer delight which made him so attractive. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows.

"Kirk!" cried Christobel. "Oh, it is so good to see you."

"I heard you were coming but did not know you had arrived."

"This is my brother, Kirkwell," Christobel told me. "And this is Kate, Mistress Kate Standish."

He had turned his smile on me. "Ah, so at last we meet. I must tell you that I have heard a great deal about you."

I felt at a disadvantage. Christobel had never told me about him.

"And so you have come to the Dower House. Well then, we shall be neighbors. I hope you will be very happy here. My sister is a good governess—so she tells me."

"Kirk, I have told you nothing of the sort! It is Kate who is the good pupil."

"No, no," I said. "It is really Christobel who is the good governess."

"It seems to me a very happy state of affairs when you can both speak so highly of each other. Let us say you are both very good. Are you going to the house, Chris?"

"Yes. I did not know I would meet you here."

"I am working on this cottage. It's been neglected too long."

"Is our father well?"

There was a faint pause. "He is as ever," said Kirkwell. "He will be overjoyed to see you ... and Mistress Kate. We were not sure when you would arrive."

"It's good to be here. Kirk."

"It seems odd. You here ... and not with the family."

"Yes ... but I nearly am. I am home, really."

"You were so far away in London." He looked at me. "Are you going to enjoy the country, do you think. Mistress Kate?"

"It has all been very pleasant so far."

"Are you going home now?" said Kirk, turning to his sister. "I'll come with you. Wait just a moment."

He left us and went back to the cottage where he had been working.

"You did not tell me you have a brother," I said to Christobel.

"Did I not?" she said.

In fact, I thought, she told me very little. I believe now it was because she had come to us through my father and one of the conditions of her employment was that my mother should not know this. So it must have seemed wise to say as little as possible about herself. And now I was learning a great deal in a very short time.

Kirkwell had rejoined us. He was riding a strong-looking black horse.

"This is my home, Kate," said Christobel as a house came into sight.

I thought it was charming—more cozy than the great Norman fortress which was Rosslyn Manor. Featherston Manor was of red brick. There was a gatehouse and I was enchanted by the gables and turrets.

We alighted. Kirkwell said: "I'll take the horses. There's only old Tom in the stables nowadays with young Arthur to help him."

"Of course," said Christobel. "We'll go in. Father will be in his study, I suppose."

"I dare say."

We went into the hall. I was aware that it was rather shabby. Perhaps I noticed that after the perfection of the Dower House; and Martha had scrupulously attended to household chores in Maggie's house.

The walls were paneled from floor to ceiling with narrow oak planks carved in the pattern known as linenfold. I noticed that it was broken away in one or two places. The fireplace was high and open and there was a coat of arms as an overmantel.

It was beautiful, but in need of attention; even I could see that. I thought of the brother in the fields as a workman, and Christobel who had had to go into the world as a governess.

There was no doubt about it: the Carews were jx)or and this once-fine mansion must be a drain on their income.

"Miss Chris!" A woman had come into the hall. She was middle-aged and plump, with rather wispy hair straying from under the cap she wore.

With a cry of "Carrie!" Christobel threw herself into her arms. They stood holding each other for some minutes. They were laughing and nearly crying too. I stood still, watching them, sharing in the joy of their reunion.

"So, you are here at last. My little one, you're so thin! What have they been doing, starving you?"

"Well, you make up for me ..." said Christobel.

"You get away with you."

"And, Carrie, how is it? Is all well?"

I detected a note of anxiety in her voice. She had certainly told me very little. That and last night's outburst seemed to have shown me a different side to her part of it all.

She remembered me then and said: "This is Mistress Kate Standish, my pupil."

"You with a pupil!" It was as though Carrie was so delighted to have Christobel with her that she could not spare a thought for anyone else, but she reluctantly turned from Christobel to me. "Oh yes indeed, Mistress Kate." Her dark brown eyes, still misty from greeting Christobel, swept over me rather pityingly, I imagined. I wondered whether she knew of my mother's death and the truth of my unusual parentage.

"So, you've come to stay at the Dower House and Mistress Chris has been teaching you ... and is going on with it. Well, I never thought to see the day. Oh, here's May."

May, I discovered, was Carrie's niece who had come to help her and, as Carrie was very short of help in the house, her presence was necessary.

They talked for a while, not paying very much attention to me, which was natural enough. They were so pleased to have Christobel back.

Kirkwell came into the hall.

"Still down here?" he said. "I thought you'd be with our father."

"I had to see Carrie, and then May came ..."

"Of course, of course. I'll go and tell him you are here. I think he is with Father Greville."

"With whom?" asked Christobel.

"Father Greville's a priest. He is visiting this part of the world. He's been staying in this house for some days now. He is moving round the district ... visiting the faithful."

"So Father is still ..."

"As fervent as ever," said Kirkwell. "I'll go up now and come back for you if it is all right."

He left us, and Christobel said to me: "Our father is very much involved with his religion. He always leaned towards it. We were constantly having priests to stay. In fact, he was far more interested in his faith than in running the estate. It was a passion with him."

I thought what an exciting morning it was. I was learning so much that I did not know before. Christobel was like a new person to me.

She was a very unusual woman and seemed to pass through stages. She had come to me as a governess and I had known that, like so many of her profession, she had been brought up to be a lady and, finding herself in straitened circumstances, had had to join one of the only professions open to her. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about that; until she had been exposed as the spy of Lord Rosslyn. Now I was being introduced to a background of which I had been almost entirely ignorant, though I had known that it was an impoverished one, as it was because of financial shortcomings that she had been sent our way.

It was most intriguing.

Kirkwell returned. He said: "Father Greville has gone to his room and our father awaits you."

"Then we'll come," said Christobel.

I followed them up the stairs. We went through a small chapel. I noticed the lighted candles on the altar and the big statue of the Virgin Mary. There was a small room leading from the chapel and we went into this.

A man turned to us as we entered. He seemed old but I think he would have been no more than fifty. He was wearing a dark robe, rather like that of a priest. He gave the impression of not being a part of this world—rather as a monk might have been.

His eyes were on Christobel.

"My dear child," he said, as she went to him and put her arms about him, "you have come. I knew God would answer my prayers."

"Yes, I am here. Father, and I shall be here for a while, I think."

"Bless you, my child."

"I must introduce you to Mistress Kate Standish, my pupil. Kate, this is my father. Sir Harold Carew."

He took my hands in his and held them firmly while he looked into my face. I immediately began to think of all the little sins I might have committed, for I felt that, being so good, he would be aware of them ... even those which I might not know were sins. Good people were always so very much more aware of sins than people like myself.

"May God bless you, my child," he said.

"You are well, Father?" asked Christobel.

"God has been good to me."

Kirkwell came in. I was very pleased to see him. I was completely at a loss to know what was expected of me.

Christobel seemed a little uneasy too.

But Kirkwell said: "Is it not fortunate that we have Christobel back with us. Father?"

"God has seen fit to give her back to us."

"Well, we never really lost her," said Kirkwell.

"Indeed, God has been good."

It seemed that God must be everpresent for Christobel's father.

I was quite unprepared for this. I wished Christobel had told me what to expect. I wondered how I should address him if the need arose. I understood he was Sir Harold.

Kirkwell seemed to be aware of my uncertainty. He said: "Is this your first visit to this part of the country. Mistress Kate?"

I told him it was.

"Christobel must take you round the neighborhood. It is a very beautiful part of the country—but perhaps we think so because it is our native heath. However, Christobel should certainly show you some of our beauty spots. The Quantock Hills are a delight, and she should take you to Bridgwater and Taunton and most certainly to Sedgemoor. On Sedgemoor you can see for miles— the Quantocks to the south and the Bristol Channel to the north, and the Mendip Hills. There will be plenty for you to see."

"It sounds delightful," I replied. "I shall look forward to it."

"I have plans for her," said Christobel.

Sir Harold, who did not appear to have been listening to this conversation, said suddenly: "You must visit the church in Crantock close by here. It is a beautiful old place. It is sad that it is no longer used for the celebration of the true faith."

Kirkwell said that he had work to do and should get back to it. He had high hopes of restoring the barns and they were going to be very useful when they could be put to the use for which they were intended.

We left with him.

Christobel said to Kirkwell: "He has not changed."

"No, he becomes more and more immersed in his religion and of course, is becoming obsessed. He thing: the return to Rome. I do not like it. I am a little ^..s.^. Father Greville has spent a great deal of time about here." He shrugged his shoulders, 'if only our father would have other interests. The estate, for instance"

Christobel sighed. By this time we had descended to the hail and there laid out v^^as a flask of wine with some oat cakes.

Carrie appeared.

"I thought you would like something to refresh yourselves with. We do not want the young lady to think we do not know how to look after our guests."

She smiled at me. I liked her. I had been a little depressed by the old man and his constant references to God.

The wine was fruity and the cakes were good. I liked Kirkweil. and I thought how different he and Christobel were from their father.

I suppose it was because they regarded me as a child that they talked freely before me.

"Is it improving?" asked Christobel earnestly.

Kirkweil smiled. *T think I may say it is. It is a great challenge. Chris. But things are beginning to work out a little to our advantage. Crops were quite good this year on the home farm. I've been able to take on a new man.''

"Oh, that is good news."

"He is quite a good worker. He does all sorts of odd jobs, which is what I need. He has firm religious beliefs."

"He should get on w^ll with Father."

"Alas, his are on the opposite side. He is one of the old Puritans, I think. In any case, he is a firm Protestant. He is very disturbed that the King might die and the Duke of York become King, in which case he might bring back the Catholic rule. He is quite fierce. I avoid getting into conversation with him. I saw him give Father Greville quite a murderous look the other day. He '.va^ ra>^:r.g outside the house when Father Greville had been visiting."

"Oh, dear. I'll look out for him. What is his name?"

"Isaac Xapp. He is quite a good worker. I think I was lucky to find him."

"Kirk. I am so glad things are getting better. Do you think you are going to save the old place so that we do not have to lose it?"

"I am determined to. But we are forgetting Mistress Kate," he said. He turned to me. "Christobel has probably told you about the troubles we are having here. In any case, it must be obvious. You see, everything here has been rather neglected. Our grandfather was a gambler and that was not good for the place. Our father is no gambler, but he never had any great interest in it. He ought to have gone into the Church. That is why we talk about it so much."

I said: "But you are going to put that right."

He laughed. "Mistress Kate, I like you. I like you very much. You believe in me, do you not? That is what I say: I am going to make it right. And I shall."

He smiled at me in such a friendly fashion that I felt very happy.

Soon after that we left and we rode back to the Dower House. I had been very interested to meet Christobel's family.

There was much to claim my attention during those first days at the Dower House. It was managed with the utmost efficiency by Isabel Longton, who kept her two maids, Daisy and Annie, in the same good order as she did the house. She gave no indication that this was not the most conventional of households.

My half-brother Luke was as interested in me as I was in him. He was intrigued by my theatrical background and wanted to hear more about my mother and Maggie and the house in London.

He told me his mother had been a companion to Lady Rosslyn. When Luke's existence was discovered, our father had set her up in a house in Bridgwater, where Luke had been born. He remembered her with sadness. She had been gentle and beautiful, according to him. When he was only five years old, he had come into the house and found her sitting in a chair, staring ahead of her. She did not speak to him. In fact, she never spoke to him again. She had had a heart attack and died a few hours after he found her.

He remembered that day as the blackest in his life.

He looked very sad, even as he told me, and I could picture that poor bewildered child who had lost the one he cared for most in the world. It was worse because he could not understand what had happened. Someone told him she had gone to stay with the angels and he had wanted to know why she had not taken him with her. She had always taken him everywhere before. And when would she come back? He was frightened and even angry with her for leaving him.

"For the next five years I lived on a farm. There were other children. I thought I was dead and had descended into Hell. And then I began to understand what had happened.

''I was a serious boy, I think. I suppose that, with that having happened, one might become serious. There were other children on the farm—the children of the farmer and his wife. It v^-as not that they were unkind to me, but I knew I was not one of them. I was the outsider. While I was on the farm my father came to see me once or twice. I know now that he kept a watch on me, but he did not often come to see me. I did not know he was my father then. He seemed a very important gentleman, and when he came there was always a great deal of fuss on the farm. Everything was polished and the best they had brought out. I suppose the money for my keep was important to them.

"Then one day he came when I was nearly ten years old, so I must have been at the farm for five years or so. He said to me, 'You're not happy here, boy, are you?* He called me boy, never Luke. He was different from everyone I had ever known. He was so important, so grand. He did not speak as we spoke. I think it was my maimer of speaking which made him act as he did. *You must be educated, boy,' he said. *You can't go through life like a farm laborer.' He was very thoughtful. He looked at me in an odd way. and I thought I had annoyed him. And then he laid his hand on my shoulder and reassured me. I was not sure what it meant, but I soon discovered. Shortly after that I was brought to the Dower House, and Roger came."

"You were happier then?" I said.

He smiled. "There was much to make me so. I was not the outsider any more. Life was very different and I began to learn something about myself. In time I discovered that Lord Rosslyn was actually my father. I learned to read and write with Roger, and it was like a new world opening for me. My father came now and then to see me. He was pleased with the change in me, I saw that, and I determined to improve myself. Oh yes, it was a change for the better, I can tell you. And when I saw Rosslyn Manor and I realized that the owner was my father, I was so proud. I loved the place. I became friendly with James Morton, the agent who looks after the estate. I was constantly trying to see him. He must have found me something of a nuisance. I used to get him to talk about the estate and all the things that had to be done. Now and then I would ride with him and I wished beyond everything that, instead of being born to my mother, I had been Lady Rosslyn's son—then that great estate would be mine. Then I thought of my mother and how dearly I loved her, and how my life was plunged into unhappiness after that time when I lost her forever. I can see her face now ... and when I compare it with that of Lady Rosslyn ..."

"You have met her, then?"

"I have seen her. She is proud and haughty and I could not imagine her loving the boy I was, and I felt disloyal and ashamed."

"It is natural, of course," I said. "But is it not an amazing thing suddenly to discover you have a sister? It is for me to find I have a brother."

"It's exciting, and I am glad you are my sister."

"And I am glad you are my brother."

"And all these years we did not know it. We could have met in the street and passed each other by."

And so we talked and in a few days it seemed as though we had always known each other. He introduced me to the countryside and used to ride out with Christobel and me, and we were almost always accompanied by Roger Camden.

Luke took us over to the Rosslyn estate. There was no rule that we were not to venture there. I supposed Lady Rosslyn would not be very pleased to see us there, but it was hardly likely that we should meet her. Nevertheless, I thought a great deal about her. She must be a very unhappy lady. It was not her fault that she had failed to provide the necessary heir; but the deficiency clearly lay with her, for here were Luke and myself to prove that her husband was quite capable of getting healthy children. How she must resent us!

I had been at the Dower House three days when my father came.

Christobel and I had been riding. We had had a very pleasant time. We had called at Featherston and had spent a merry hour with Kirkwell and the agent from Rosslyn Manor, who happened to have called.

Kirkwell told us that he had been consulting James Morton about some problems.

"He is the expert," said Kirkwell.

"More years of experience," explained James Morton modestly.

"But," added Kirkwell, "I am learning."

"And doubtless will surpass me one day."

I liked the agent. He was about twenty-eight years old, I suppose, a good ten years older than Kirkwell, but he was not in the least boastful of his superior knowledge.

"I am so glad he and Kirkwell have become such good friends," Christobel said as we rode awm-.

As soon as we arrived at the Dower House, Mistress Longton's manner told us that something had happened. She came hurrying out to tell us: "His lordship is in the sitting room. He has been waiting for ten minutes."

Christobel tried to look unconcerned, but did not manage it very well.

She said: "Well, if he had warned us that he was coming we should not have been out."

"It's Mistress Kate he'll want to see. Best get in there without delay, my dear."

He had been standing at the window, looking out, so he would have seen us arrive.

"Ah, Kate," he said. "Have you enjoyed your ride?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Come. Sit down. I would speak with you."

I sat down and he pulled up another chair so that he was close to me.

"You look well," he said. "I believe the country life suits you."

"Everyone has been very kind," I said.

"Mistress Longton assures me that you are happy here. And you are continuing with your lessons under the guidance of Mistress Christobel?"

"Oh yes, indeed."

"That is well. You will be safer here. London is not a good place to be in at the moment."

"Have you seen Maggie?"

"I have. And I assured her that you have arrived safely and will write to her and tell her what you have found here. I hope you will give a good report of us."

"Oh yes."

"And thanks to Mistress Christobel, you can write a good hand." He looked at me earnestly. "I hope that you are going to be happy here. What think you of your brother?"

"I like Luke very much."

"A good boy. Ambitious ... I like that. Perhaps it is good ... but perhaps not. That remains to be seen. I gather you are exploring the countryside?"

"Yes."

"And you have been to Featherston?"

"Yes, we have just returned from there."

"And you have been meeting Mistress Christobel's family?"

"Yes, I met her brother and her father ..."

"Ah," he said, frowning. "Her brother is an enterprising young man, making the best of a difficult job. How they have let that place go to ruin! But he's doing well. He will do it. The old man is not much use."

"You mean Sir Harold?"

"Yes, Sir Harold. If only he paid as much attention to looking after his home on earth as he does to concerning himself with his seat in Heaven, he might be able to offer his children some security. So you met him?"

"It was not for long."

"And what did he say to you?"

"He talked mostly about God."

That made him laugh. "Oh, these saints," he said. "How uncomfortable they make everyone else!"

"And Maggie is well? You said that London was not a pleasant place to be in at this time."

"You have heard of Titus Oates?"

"Yes, everyone was talking about him before I left."

"Well, it has become worse. He has produced this plot which the Catholics are said to have hatched and which is designed to bring England back to the Church of Rome after murdering all the Protestants. It is making life very uncomfortable for a number of people."

"And Maggie?"

"This would not touch Maggie. But there is something unpleasant about the whole business. That is why I said that at this time London is a place from which it is best to be away."

"So many things happen there. There was the plague and the fire."

"Before your time, my child. It is the capital city, and, as you say, such events are more likely to take place there than in small unimportant towns or villages. Well, I am glad to see you have settled in. Mistress Longton tells me you and she are good friends and that Mistress Christobel is a pleasure to have in the house. So everything seems satisfactory."

"And you, my lord, are well and happy?" I said.

He looked at me oddly, a strange smile on his lips.

"I thank you for your kind enquiries," he said. But he did not answer my question.

There were so many other questions I wanted to ask him. It is rather unsettling, suddenly to be confronted with a father and a brother whom one did not know one possessed not very long before.

But I could not say I was displeased by my new life. Much as I had hated leaving Maggie, I could not help being pleased that I was at the Dower House.

The Spy

It was only rarely that I thought about the strangeness of our situation. I suppose it was accepted by the people around us more easily than it would have been in another age.

The King had several illegitimate children: they enjoyed high honors and included the Duke of Monmouth himself. In our community Lord Rosslyn was as the King, and if he pleased to house his children in his Dower House, that he might in a mild manner supervise their upbringing without any inconvenience to himself, it was not for his inferiors to question the matter. He could hardly have brought the children into his immediate circle. But what of Lady Rosslyn? How did she feel about having other women's children brought to live as her immediate neighbors? It could seem like an insult and a reproach.

However, it seemed that the situation was accepted by most people, including ourselves.

Luke, though, often cast envious glances at the big house. I think he had some secret dream that one day Lord Rosslyn would relent, depart from tradition and accept his son—though an illegitimate one—as his heir, since he had no other to take that place and become master of Rosslyn Manor.

As for me, I was enjoying life at the Dower House. I had Christobel with me and we saw a great deal of her brother, whom I was liking more and more. Then I had my own half-brother and he seemed to like me as I did him. Roger Camden was also interesting to be with. We were a happy little group and I had never before known so many young people, for, although they were all older than I, they were young in comparison with Maggie and Martha and Jane who had been my main companions after my mother had died.

All through those winter months I learned about the place I lived in, the people surrounding me. I saw my new father occasionally. I found it all interesting enough to prevent my brooding on the loss of my old life.

Then spring came, and with it tragedy.

It started with the arrival of strangers in the neighborhood.

In the village of Nether Green, which was nearest to the Dower House, two men came to stay. At first they were thought to be two travelers who would stay for a few days and then move on. Instead, they prolonged their stay and asked the innkeeper a great many questions, all concerning the priest Father Greville, who for some time had been living in the neighborhood. They wanted to know which of the local inhabitants had sheltered Father Greville and who were his friends. It was all very strange, and the innkeeper and his wife could not understand why these two men should be so interested in an old priest.

Christobel and I had made a habit of riding out each day and almost always called at Featherston Manor. We usually found Kirkwell working somewhere and we would stop and have a chat with him. I would often stop with him while Christobel went to see her father.

I had occasionally seen Isaac Napp about the place. Often he worked with Kirkwell, sometimes with another of the men. He had a faintly sanctimonious air and I imagined he was critical of those about him. I had heard him admonishing Jem Lee, one of the cottagers on the Rosslyn estate, on account of his irreligious ways. Kirkwell said he was a good worker, but he did not like that air of sanctity which he assumed.

On this particular morning I saw Isaac Napp walking some little distance from the house, and he was in the company of two men.

I said to Christobel: "Look. Is that not Isaac Napp?"

"Oh yes, it is," said Christobel.

"I do not know who those others are. Has Kirkwell been employing any more men?"

"No," replied Christobel. "Oh, I see. They are those men who are staying at the inn."

"I've heard of them," I said, and I watched them for a moment. They were deep in conversation.

"Perhaps Isaac is converting them," I added with a laugh.

"That is not unlikely," replied Christobel.

And we rode on towards Featherston Manor.

As we came into one of the fields, Christobel's horse broke into a gallop. I spurred up Lively Lady, expecting her to follow in her less than lively way. Then suddenly it happened. I was thrown forward. I felt the ground rising to meet me and I was down.

I lay there for a second, bewildered. Lively Lady meanwhile stood patiently beside me.

Christobel was bending over me. "Kate, what happened? Are you hurt?"

"She ... she threw me ..."

"I'd better get help. We're near the house, thank Heaven. Kate, don't move. I'll be back right away. We must get help."

In a very short time she was back, and Kirkwell was with her.

He was kneeling beside me. There was deep concern on his face.

"Kate ... are you in pain?"

"My foot hurts," I said.

"Let's see if you can stand."

He helped me to my feet. I tried to stand and cried out when my left foot touched the ground.

"It seems as if you have twisted your ankle," he said, as I tottered towards him, and he caught me, holding me against him.

"I'm going to get you to the house," he said. "We'll find out what is wrong. What happened to Lively Lady?"

"She stumbled over this root, I think," said Christobel.

It transpired that I was not badly hurt, though my ankle was sprained, which would necessitate my resting it for a while.

Christobel said that it would be best for me to remain at Featherston Manor for a few days and she would stay there with me.

This was how I came to be there right at the heart of the tragedy when it happened.

I had spent a happy day at Featherston. Kirkwell had carried me to the bedroom they had prepared for me on my first night there. I had had a very pleasant day lying on the sofa in the solarium, which still showed signs of its old grandeur. In spite of its shabbiness there was a very pleasant atmosphere about Featherston Manor. Its lack of affluence seemed of little importance. Carrie made much of me and she and her niece May saw that I was comfortable: and my mishap, apart from the pain in my ankle, seemed to have been the means of giving everyone an exciting adventure.

There was no ceremony at Featherston Manor and Carrie and May sat with us while we discussed what had happened to make Lively Lady lose her footing.

Kirkwell said, "The poor creature is getting old. She may not see as well as she once did. Perhaps you should find a new mount, Kate. What do you think, Chris?"

"I think so. I have wondered for some time whether you should do that."

And so we talked.

It was later that day. I was still on my sofa. Christobel and I were reading aloud, taking it in turns to read a page before passing it on to the other. It was a pastime we often enjoyed.

Kirkwell came bursting into the room. I could see he was distraught.

"Father Greville has been arrested!" he said.

"Arrested!" cried Christobel. "For what reason?"

"For plotting against the King and the state."

We stared at him in amazement.

"I like it not," he said, sitting down and staring ahead of him and frowning.

"I don't understand," cried Christobel. "Father Greville is a feeble old man. How could he plot against the King?"

"He is a Catholic."

"Well, what of that?"

"You know what is happening in London, do you not? It started before you left. The Popish Plot has now become the main concern of the country, it seems."

"But what could Father Greville—an old man—here in the heart of the country have to do with that?"

"It seems that innocent people are being arrested. It only needs suspicion."

"Arrested," repeated Christobel. "I cannot believe anyone would arrest Father Greville. Who has done this?"

"It is those two strangers at the inn. They were not what they seemed. They are agents of Titus Gates."

"Surely not. There must be a mistake."

"Father Greville is their prisoner now."

"Where?"

"He is in jail at Bridgwater. They say that he will be taken to London."

"It can only be a rumor. You know how these stories start. Doubtless he has been seen with those men ..."

"I wish it were so."

I said: "We saw those men from the inn. Do you remember, Christobel? They were talking to that new man of yours."

"Isaac?" said Kirkwell, and I saw a sudden fear in his eyes.

"They are spies, those men," said Christobel. "Spies for that man Titus Gates. Why should they talk to Isaac?"

"They will be finding out who were Father Greville's friends," said Kirkwell. "They will be asking questions of everyone."

"Do you think they were asking Isaac questions?"

Christobel and Kirkwell were looking at each other in the utmost apprehension.

"Oh, God help us," murmured Kirkwell.

"What will happen to Father Greville?" I asked.

They were both silent.

Gloom had fallen over the house. We were all very frightened. Titus Oates's spies were questioning people. They were going to take Father Greville to London. He was now waiting in the jail at Bridgwater until they were ready. I think we were expecting it when it came.

When we heard them knocking at the iron-studded door which opened into the great hall, it was like the toll of the funeral bell.

I lay on my sofa, my heart hammering.

I heard their voices, loud and hectoring, and Kirkwell's, protesting.

There was silence. Christobel and I stared at each other with wide frightened eyes.

Christobel whispered: "They are with my father. He will do nothing to save himself. I pray to God they do not take Kirkwell."

"How can they ... ?"

"These men do what they will. They twist people's words. But my father will do nothing to save himself."

We sat in silence, waiting. Then we heard them descending the stairs.

They put Sir Harold on a horse and took him away.

There was nothing we could do.

It was with immense relief that we saw that Kirkwell was still with us.

My father came riding over to Featherston Manor. He was clearly worried.

"Is it true?" he demanded. "I heard they have taken Sir Harold to London."

"He is now in the jail at Bridgwater awaiting removal to London," said Kirkwell.

"This is a monstrous thing."

"The Popish Plot is a monstrous plot."

"Surely people are not such fools as to think your father—"

"People do not think. Titus Gates has them on leading strings."

"But Father Greville is an old man. He would not harm a fly. There is no justice."

"None with such as Titus Gates. Nevertheless, I shall go to London. I must do what I can to save our father."

"There is nothing you can do," said my father.

"It is just possible that I may be able to do something."

"It is well to keep away."

"I could not do that."

Christobel said: "If you go, I shall go with you."

"I will come too," I said.

My father looked at me in amazement.

I looked steadily at him and said: "I must be with Christobel and Kirkwell at such a time."

I thought he was going to forbid me to go, but he did not. He seemed rather pleased in a way. He said: "It is a grievous thing that has come upon us. Why does this man do it? It is to call attention to himself, I'll swear. He is the most talked-of man in England. He is given money for his pains."

"Why does not the King see that he is exposed for what he is?" cried Christobel.

"The King is cautious. He never forgets that his father lost not only his kingdom but his head. Our King Charles is determined that shall not happen to him. He knows the people's feeling. It could take little to bring about division in the kingdom such as we knew before. We have rid ourselves of the Puritans. We have had the Restoration of the monarchy and right glad the people were to have it back after years of Puritan rule. But the King is wise. Many times I have heard him say he will not go wandering again. He knows the people listen to Titus Oates. What do you think would happen if the fellow were piit where he deserves to be? Riots, of a surety. It is the warring religions that are at the root of it. The majority of Englishmen and -women are determined never to have a Catholic monarch on the throne again, but the King has no legitimate heir. There is only the Duke of Monmouth, the firmest Protestant of all, and he is only the King's natural son. But the people are afraid of Catholic James, the heir to the throne. There is a protest against him at this very moment."

"And what of our father?" asked Kirk well.

There was silence.

Then Kirkwell went on: "I must be near him. There may be something I can do. There may be someone who could help. Someone in court circles ..."

He was looking at my father, who, after a moment's hesitation, said: "There is little I or anyone can do. I could speak to someone highly placed—Stafford, Arundel, Buckingham, perhaps even the King himself. But, as I say, this is not a matter of reason. The people at this time believe Titus Oates because they want to. They are afraid that when the King dies the Catholic Duke of York will be King. They want to keep the Catholics from the throne of England and they support this tale of Catholic plots."

"You make it sound as though there is little hope."

"Once a man is accused by Titus Oates there is little hope."

"Oh, our poor father. You see, he will do nothing to save himself. So I must do all I can."

"I will come to London with you," said my father. "If it is possible to do anything, that shall be done."

It was agreed that they would go to London, and as I desperately wanted to go with them, my father said that, if my ankle was well enough, I could go.

It was a somber journey.

We had seen Father Greville and Sir Harold leave Bridgwater as traitors, and we all knew that there was but the flimsiest hope of our being able to do anything to save them.

Christobel and I went to Maggie. It was certainly a pleasure to see her again, and for a moment I tried to forget the dismal reason for our coming. Maggie could not hide her pleasure in seeing me, but naturally she deplored the reason which had brought us. Kirkwell stayed at my father's lodgings and it seemed that it would not be long before the fate of Father Greville and Sir Harold would be decided.

Maggie wanted to hear how I was faring at Somerset, and I gave her an account of the Dower House and Mistress Longton; she nodded appreciatively, and talking of it made me stop brooding, if only briefly, on the fate of those poor old men who we now knew had been taken to the Tower and, like all the victims of Titus Oates, were being accused of treason.

Christobel and Kirkwell were seeing some friends they knew in London who they felt might have some influence, and I believed my father was doing all he could.

That left me with Maggie, and she talked to me just as she used to in the past. Alas, on this occasion the talk centered round Titus Oates, but that was because, as I quickly realized, that man seemed to have taken possession of the town and he was the most dominant figure in London.

"I believe him to be a wicked man," said Maggie, "and that is more than I dare say to anyone else. There are some who would call you Papist and have you in the Tower for saying as much. But how does a man sleep in his bed at night when through him wives have lost their husbands, husbands their wives and little children their parents? And all for the sake of religion. They do say that what he wants to be rid of is the Queen and that is one of the main reasons for his actions."

"But why?" I asked. "I thought she was a kind and gentle lady."

"Oh, she is, she is. But she is also a Catholic. They're looking at her household. Mark me, they'll be having some of her household brought up, but it is the Queen they are after."

"They could not harm her. The King would not allow that."

" 'Tis the old story. We need a Queen that can get boys. And when you think of the King's bastards ... ! Why, I could name ten and I reckon there are more; yet she cannot get one. It is as though God is making a mock of kings, bringing home to them who is above them all. Oh, to see the airs and graces that man Oates gives himself! I have to seal up my lips or I'd not be able to stop the words coming from them."

"Why does he do it?" Martha asked.

"Why indeed? Look at him. He was nobody but a short while ago, and here he is, strutting round like the king of the realm. 'Tis dangerous. Oh, we live in dangerous days, I tell you. And that poor man ..."

"I saw him, Maggie. He thought of nothing but his religion. And now these ..."

"They say the King would stop it if he dared. But you see, there is his brother. He is one of them. The King wants to go on his easy way ... and how can he with all this going on?"

"What is going to happen to Christobel's father?"

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: "He is of noble birth. It will be the axe for him."

"And poor Father Greville?"

"Pray let us not talk of it."

"Do you think my father can save them? He will try, I believe. He does not like this any more than you do."

"It will be a miracle if anyone can save them."

"Poor Christobel! Poor Kirkwell."

"Why do they do this? Why do they have to let everyone know? If they want to be on the side of the Pope, why not do it behind closed doors? I expect the Duke of York has at least one chapel. Why must they tell everyone?"

"I suppose they would think it was dishonest to pretend."

"So they let forth a bag of trouble and bring misery to thousands for the sake of being honest," cried Maggie. "I'd rather see a little dishonesty myself."

I agreed with her.

Then she changed the subject and wanted to know if I had met Lady Rosslyn, and what she thought of my being at the Dower House.

I could not say, but I imagined she would not be very happy about it.

"Like the poor Queen. There is another. And like the Queen, doubtless Lady Rosslyn must turn a blind eye to her husband's tricks."

"It is very sad for them both. I wonder how they can be so cruel ... the King and my father."

"It is the nature of men. I doubt either of them could turn themselves into a faithful husband ...no, not for a brood of sons."

"I should not care to be the wife of such a man."

"Then you must choose well. The handsome rake with the honeyed tongue is not for you. Your father must find you a good and honest man who knows the true values in life."

"Are there such?"

"Mayhap a few."

And so we talked while waiting for news.

It came. Among the last of those to be executed for treason were Father Greville and Sir Harold Carew.

There was very little delay in these matters. The streets were thronged with people come to see the deaths of those men condemned as traitors and discovered through the zealous work of their hero Titus Oates. We sat together, Christobel and I, with Maggie beside us. In our minds we were out there with the crowd. I could picture them so clearly, heads held high, perhaps clasping their crucifixes as they faced death, proud to die for their faith. I could picture the crafty face of Titus Oates, though I had never seen it. Wicked ... he must be wicked ... laughing to himself as the head of another victim fell.

And poor Father Greville ... whose only crime was to be a Catholic priest.

Christobel's face was distorted by grief. This was her father.

He had been remote, more concerned with religion than with his family, but still her father, and innocent of any crime.

How long could this wickedness go on?

I knew that man Oates was evil. Why did so many people applaud him, almost make a god of him, calling him their savior because he had sent innocent men to their death?

So it was over. All our hopes of saving Sir Harold were gone. We sat silently in Maggie's parlor. Kirkwell was with us, and there was hatred in his eyes.

He said: "Our father was betrayed. And to think I brought that man into the house. I see it clearly now. Isaac Napp. He was a spy for that odious Oates. I wish I'd killed him ... before he worked his mischief."

Poor, poor Kirkwell. I knew what he was suffering. He was blaming himself for having brought the man who betrayed his father to Featherston.

"I should have seen it," he said. "All that preaching, all that virtue. A spy for Titus Oates. I would have killed him if I'd known."

"You must not blame yourself," said Christobel. "How could we have known what that man was? Spies like that are everywhere."

And so we talked or fell into one of those brooding silences when we were all going over it in our minds.

"I must go back to Featherston with Kirkwell," said Christobel at last. "Kate, you may come with me."

So to Featherston Manor we went.

Carrie and her niece May greeted us somberly. It was a house of sorrow.

Carrie insisted that we eat, and we did, although we had little appetite. We sat for a long time in the solarium, and the tragedy seemed closer to us there than it had in London.

I am sure that that night the others were sleepless, as I was.

It was the morning of the day after our return to Featherston. Carrie had tried to tempt us with food, to which we could do little justice. We were in the room which overlooked the courtyard and suddenly we heard the clatter of horses' hooves and after a few moments James Morton appeared.

He came into the room in which we sat.

"I heard you were back," he said.

He did not mention Sir Harold, but his looks showed his deep sympathy.

"I suppose you will be getting down to work without delay," he said to Kirkwell.

"Yes," replied Kirkwell. "I must do that."

"I was wondering if you needed any help over that thatching job. The half-finished one, you know, at Downside Cottage."

Before Kirkwell could answer we heard voices outside, and two men came into the courtyard.

Kirkwell stared at them for a second and then he was on his feet, and to my horror I saw that the two men were Jem Lee, who did odd jobs on the estate, and Isaac Napp.

Kirkwell had risen, his face distorted with rage.

Before anyone could stop him, he was through the door. James went quickly after him and Christobel and I followed, but Kirkwell was there before us.

"You rogue! You spy!" he shouted at Isaac Napp. "How dare you come here?"

He had seized Isaac by the throat and was shaking him.

"You come here ..."he was shouting. "You come here, getting our confidence with your talk of holiness, and you have murdered my father—an innocent man who never wronged anyone. I will kill you for that."

Christobel and I were staring in horror, terrified that Kirkwell would carry out his threat.

It was James Morton who took action.

He sprang forward and caught Kirkwell's arm. Kirkwell released Isaac Napp, who reeled back, his hands to his throat.

Kirkwell stammered: "He ... he is responsible for my father's death."

"It is not for you to take the law into your own hands," said James quietly.

"He ... he is a spy."

"Be off," said James to Isaac.

"I did my duty," said Isaac. "That's all I did. Traitors to the King ... Papists ..."

Kirkwell seemed to recover himself. He glanced down at his hands in horror. I think he was contemplating what he might have done if James had not stopped him in time.

It was a tense and dramatic moment as they all stood there, Kirkwell staring contemptuously at Isaac Napp, who returned his gaze truculently.

"Get off my land," said Kirkwell, "and never let me see you on it again."

"I've no wish to stay," retorted Isaac.

He turned and, still touching his throat where Kirkwell had grasped it, walked out of the courtyard. Jem Lee hesitated a second or so before following him.

"Thank you, James," said Kirkwell soberly. "Heaven knows what I might have done to him if you hadn't been here to stop me.

"He deserves it," replied James. "But it's for the law to punish him ... not you."

"I lost my temper. It has been such a shock ... my father."

"I know," said James. "I should have felt the same."

We were all terribly shaken by the incident—none more than Kirkwell himself. Naturally of easygoing temperament, it was rare that he lost his temper. But his father's death had so shaken him, and the sight of the man who had been instrumental in bringing it about on his land had so incensed him that he had completely lost his habitual self-control.

Sobered, we went into the house.

We were all trying to get back to normal. Christobel said that this sort of tragedy was happening all over the country. We had to take very special care of how we acted, and even what we said. People had been merrily rejoicing in the Restoration, and now they were getting a glimpse of the revival of intolerance. People were not to be allowed to worship God in their chosen manner. It was as though a blight had fallen over the country.

In London, we had had a glimpse of the state of affairs there, where the people's dread of a Catholic England had made them accept such a man as Titus Gates.

I stayed on at Featherston. My father had raised no objection. I missed Luke but Christobel wished to be at her home at such a time and she was eager for me to be with her.

I was becoming more and more fond of Christobel and her brother Kirkwell. I had always liked Christobel but I realized that I had not really known her until I had seen her in her own old home. I believe that when we had been in London she was so conscious of deceiving my mother and Maggie that she had not been quite herself. As for Kirkwell, he was more and more my friend. He seemed to find pleasure in my company, which was strange because I must have seemed quite a child to him. I was only eleven years old and he was about eighteen or nineteen, but I had been so much with older people all my life that I supposed I seemed older.

He talked to me quite frankly. He told me how ashamed he had been of his outburst with Isaac Napp.

"Do you know, Kate," he said, "I could have killed him. I do not know what got into me. I lost control of myself. I thought of my father ... he was so meek and mild. He harmed no one. And to think of that happening to him and that poor old priest with him. And that I had brought that spy on to the scene. I think it was a kind of disgust with myself."

"It is understandable," I assured him. "Many people would have felt the same and acted in the same way."

"I thank God that James was at hand to stop me. I shall be eternally grateful to him."

"I know."

"What is so sad is that all the trouble should be in the name of religion. Intolerance. Why do people hate others because they do not share their views? But the source of the present trouble which is sending so many people to the block is the fact that the King cannot get a son, which makes the Catholic Duke of York heir to the throne."

"It all seems so trivial."

"Perhaps intolerance is."

Christobel and I tried to adjust ourselves to the old ways. We did lessons; we read with each other and we rode out often, though I had not ridden Lively Lady since my accident. I used another mare now who was much younger.

One day, when we were riding a little farther afield than usual.

we passed a prosperous-looking place between the Rosslyn and Featherston estates.

As we rode past one of the fields we saw two people there. One was a young woman. She was carrying a tray on which was a tankard of ale which she was offering to a man who sat sprawling under a tree.

There was something familiar about him.

We came to an old inn from which hung a newly painted sign. It said "The King's Head," and there was a picture of the King, dark-eyed and heavy-featured, with a feathered hat and luxuriant curls.

"I have not been here for years," said Christobel. "I did not know they had opened again. There must be new people here. It was an old ruin when I was a child. Shall we go in and see what it is like? We could have a tankard of cider mayhap."

So we tethered our horses and went in. We took our seats and a young girl came up to serve us.

She brought us the tankards of cider and obviously expected to stop and talk to us as there was no one in the inn except ourselves. She tossed back her hair and smoothed her dress, as though to call attention to her charms. She was certainly rather pretty.

"You are new here, are you not?" said Christobel.

"I've been here two months," she told us. "The inn only opened three or four months ago. There's not much trade. I'm used to a place in town. I reckon I won't be staying here much longer."

"Where do you come from?" asked Christobel.

"Taunton. Now there's a bit of life there."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Mind you, there was all that fuss over at Featherston, wasn't there?"

I saw Christobel stiffen.

"That was something," the girl went on. "They took them up to London. I knew that Isaac Napp. He came in here once or twice. He was the one who found out about them."

This was the last thing we wanted. Our great desire was to put it all behind us, to try to forget.

I looked at Christobel. Her glance said: Let's finish this drink and get out of here.

The girl was new and did not know who we were.

She went on: "One of those old families. Lots of them here. They have their chapels in their houses, so it's all set up for them. When Isaac Napp came in here once he talked to me. We were quite friendly, but now, of course ..." She laughed significantly.

What did she mean? That he was still here? Much as we disliked this conversation, I felt there was something here we should know.

I said: "He left the neighborhood, I believe, after ... I mean, this ... er ... Isaac Napp."

"Did he? It's the first I've heard of it. He's over at Fifty Acres now."

"Fifty Acres?"

"That farm that's only about a mile or so from here. He's working there."

"I thought you said he had gone away," I said.

"I said no such thing. He did not go away. He left Featherston. Well, he could hardly stay after getting the old man to the block, could he?"

"I ... I thought he had gone a long way away after that."

"No, no. Only to Fifty Acres. You wouldn't think he would be ... like he is ... being so religious and all that."

"How is he?"

"Well, I could see that when he came in here. It is the way they look. You can see it at once. He talked to me all very sober, but beneath it ... well, I'm no country girl. And now he's at Fifty Acres, and there's that Mistress Blake, is there not?"

"Is there? And what of Mistress Blake?"

"They came in here once. The farmer's wife with one of the farm workers. I could see how it was. You see. Mistress Blake is about twenty years younger than old Blake. It stands to reason she might look around. Well, there we are. He's now at Fifty Acres, is Isaac Napp. People are afraid of him, really. Nobody would say much whatever he did. They'd be afraid he'd say they were in the Plot."

We left the inn as soon as we could. I could see that the conversation had upset Christobel.

"Do you think it is really true?" she said. "Has he really gone to work so very close?"

"It is not so very close."

"It is in the neighborhood. I wish he had gone right away."

"Had you ever heard of Fifty Acres Farm?"

"No."

"Well, it is not very near, and people usually know their neighbors in the country. That girl did not know you. If it is not so far in miles, it is rather tucked away."

"Kate, do not mention before Kirkwell that Isaac Napp is living at Fifty Acres Farm."

Luke was glad to see us back at the Dower House, and so was Mistress Longton. There was a newcomer at Rosslyn Manor. He was Sebastian Adams. He came from the north, on the border between England and Scotland, and he was a distant relative of my father. James said that he had come down to train to look after the estate, which meant, of course, that Lord Rosslyn had despaired of ever having a legitimate son and in due course the estate would pass to Sebastian Adams's branch of the family.

"He is a very pleasant young man and eager to learn. I think, when the time comes, Rosslyn Manor will be safe in his hands."

James brought him to Featherston to have a look at the estate there and to meet Kirkwell. As Christobel and I were there frequently, we soon made his acquaintance.

Luke often accompanied us. After all, Sebastian Adams was a kinsman of his, as he was of mine, and we were all eager to know each other. Kirkwell, James, Luke and Sebastian were all interested in estate management.

Poor Luke was a little wistful. I believed he had secretly hoped there might be a chance of his inheriting Rosslyn Manor before Sebastian came. Since Lord Rosslyn seemed unlikely to have a legitimate son, why should his natural son not inherit, when he was surely more close than a distant cousin?

But it seemed this was not to be so and Luke's dream was over.

We talked a good deal about politics too, and speculated on what would happen when the King died. He was approaching fifty and although he had always seemed unusually healthy, there had been an illness, brief fortunately, but nevertheless a warning of what would have to come one day.

"I cannot believe that the Duke's reign would last long unless he changed a good deal," said James.

"He may well do so when he sees what is at stake," suggested Kirkwell.

"There are his daughters Mary and Anne, of course," put in Sebastian. "The King has made a point of seeing that they are brought up in the Protestant religion, in spite of their father's objections. James has many virtues. Mayhap he will change when the day comes."

"If he does not, there will be trouble."

"There is Monmouth, of course," suggested Luke. "The King could easily secure the throne for him by declaring that he had married Monmouth's mother."

"But apparently he did not," said Kirkwell, "and he has denied that many times. Though I believe there is a certain pressure to make him admit that there was a marriage ... for the sake of peace."

"It seems to me," said Sebastian, "that it is not a very healthy situation. All we can do is pray for the King to continue in good health and to rule over us for another twenty years. By that time they may have sorted it out."

So they talked, and it was amazing how often that topic seemed to come up. Perhaps it was so in many houses in England.

The popularity of Titus Oates was increasing. He strutted through the streets of London, surrounded by his guards. He wore episcopal garments, silk gown and cassock and called himself—as many others called him—the savior of the nation.

"It seems," said Kirkwell, "that we shall soon not need a king; Titus Oates will be our ruler."

"His main target is the Queen," added James. "What next, I wonder? I heard today that they had arrested Her Majesty's physician. Sir George Wakeman. If he is found guilty, the next victim will surely be the Queen herself."

"But she is an innocent gentle lady," I broke in. "She loves the King. She would not plan to kill him."

Kirkwell said bitterly: "A man or woman does not have to be guilty to be found so by Titus Oates and his men."

There was a great deal of interest in the trial of Sir George Wakeman, and rumors of what the outcome would be were even reaching places as distant as Somerset. The local people were very interested. Indeed, had we not had our own little glimpse of what the tyranny of Titus Gates could mean?

Lord Chief Justice Scroggs was to try the Wakeman case. He was notorious for his hatred of Catholicism. He had recently declared in court that it was a religion that unhinged all piety and morality. Catholics ate their God, killed their King and made saints of murderers.

It seemed that Sir George Wakeman was doomed. James said that a great deal hung on the result of this trial. If Sir George was found guilty, the Queen would surely be condemned with him.

One morning when I went downstairs, I found Mistress Long-ton looking both shocked and exhilarated, as people are when they are about to impart something which excites them because they are the first to tell it, yet they know they should be horrified to do so.

I said: "Something has happened."

"It looks like murder."

"What?" I cried. "Who?"

"It does not surprise me. He being who he is."

"Who is it? Do tell me."

"It's that man who was here ... spying."

I murmured: "Isaac Napp?"

"That's the one. He was found not far from Fifty Acres. That's just beyond the Rosslyn Estate. There's a little stream running along near the farm."

"Drowned?" I asked.

"Drowned! A child could stand up in that little stream and the water would come barely to its knees. No ... that was just what finished him off. He was half dead before he was put in. Someone had strangled him."

"It sounds terrible."

"I doubt not he had his enemies, that one. Men such as he are certain to have. He'd been half-strangled and put face down to drown. There'll be a bit of noise about this, I shouldn't wonder. It looks like murder. Couldn't be anything else. And when you reckon he's that Titus Oates's man ... Oh yes, there will be some bother about this, I'll swear."

I felt sick. I could not help thinking of Isaac Napp in the courtyard of Featherston Manor, and Kirkwell gripping his neck in his hands.

We waited in a state of near panic. Christobel's thoughts were similar to mine.

As soon as we heard the news, Christobel and I rode over to Featherston Manor. James, who was proving a good friend to Kirkwell, was already there.

Kirkwell was looking tense.

Christobel said: "Oh, James, you've heard the news. It is good of you to come."

"But of a surety I must come. I do not like this. I'm not surprised. The man must have had many enemies."

Kirkwell said: "I swear I did not do it. On everything that I hold sacred, I swear."

"We believe you," said James. "But what I fear is that, because of this man's work for Oates, this will be regarded as more than an ordinary case of murder."

"What shall we do?" asked Christobel.

James laid a hand on her arm. "You must not worry." Then he shrugged his shoulders. "What a foolish thing to say! Of course you cannot help worrying. We are all worried."

"I tell you, I have not seen the man since I ordered him out of the courtyard that day. I had no idea he was still in the neighborhood."

"I believe you," said James earnestly. "So do we all. But this is one of Oates's men. Oates will want to find someone to blame."

"But he will not be able to prove—"

"Oates does not need proof. He decides on his victim and he is so powerful that everyone bows to him. Once Sir George Wake-man is committed to the Tower and executed on a charge of treason, he will have the Queen in his grasp ... and then we might as well say it is not King Charles who rules this country but Titus Oates."

"The King will surely save the Queen?"

"Mayhap he would be glad to be rid of her. Mayhap he is more enamored of his countless mistresses than of her," said Christobel. "There are some who say he would welcome the opportunity to be free and to marry again ... a Protestant wife who would give him a son and settle this whole business of the succession."

"He is not a cruel man," said James. "I believe he is always markedly courteous to the Queen. He would not let this happen to her."

"Then why does he allow this man to behave as he does? He strikes terror into all the King's subjects. None can feel safe."

"The King is clever. He is afraid of trouble in the land and he realizes that to attempt to suppress Gates now could mean riots in the streets."

"How can he rule his kingdom if he is so much afraid of this man?"

"If the Queen were to be found guilty of treason and put to the axe ... I tremble to think what would happen," said Kirk-well. "How could a man like Gates rise to such eminence?"

"Be careful what you say," warned James. "But let us think what we must do. Let us not blind ourselves to the truth. You are in danger, Kirkwell ... unless the true murderer is found. You will be under suspicion, because of what happened to your father and mayhap because Jem Lee saw you threatening Napp. People like him tend to exaggerate. He heard you threaten to kill Napp."

"Where is Jem Lee now?"

"He is no longer working on my land. He was only a casual laborer. I did not have enough work to occupy him all the time and cannot afford to have a man with me if it is not profitable to do so."

"And he will not keep to himself what he saw in the courtyard that morning. Til swear."

Christobel looked fearfully at James. "What then?"

"Perhaps Kirkwell should be called away on business and no one is sure where."

"Would that not look like guilt?"

"I fear it might. But on the other hand it would not be good to be here when Gates's men come to look for a culprit. Depend upon it, they will not allow all this to pass. One of their men murdered!"

We all looked at James. He was older than we were, more knowledgeable and wise.

"Perhaps we should not hurry into some action which might be unwise." He looked at Kirkwell, his brow puckered. "It would not do to go away immediately ... but if Oates considers it worthwhile to send his men down here to look for a scapegoat, there will be no alternative."

"I do not want to run away and appear to be afraid of being accused of something I know nothing about."

"I understand that," said James. "But there are times when one must consider these matters carefully. It will not matter to these men whether you are guilty or not. They will come here to make an example of what happens to anyone who touches the servants of Titus Oates. You would be a good choice: You were seen to threaten Isaac Napp and you are the son of one of their victims. I fear that if they come they may settle on you. You would be the ideal choice from their px)int of view."

"You would have me run away? Leave my land?"

"I would have you save your life. But do nothing rash. Let us see what transpires. It may be that they will find the murderer here before Oates's men arrive. It may be that Oates will be too concerned with what is happening in London. Sir George Wake-man is more important than anyone here can possibly be. Mayhap Oates is too concerned with that to pay much attention to us at this time."

"What shall we do, then?' asked Christobel.

"For the moment ... wait."

I could see that Christobel was very frightened, and I shared her fear.

Enquiries were made about the death of Isaac Napp but there was no sign of any men from London.

It was not discovered who had killed him. He had not been much liked; he was a newcomer, and the truth was no one cared very much that he had come to an untimely end. Informers were men to be feared and people felt more comfortable when they were not around.

Scraps of news from London reached us, and it seemed possible that what was happening there might be the reason why no one had been sent to Somerset to find a scapegoat for the murder of Isaac Napp.

To the amazement of all. Lord Chief Justice Scroggs, fiercely anti-Catholic that he was, had not acted in the manner expected of him.

Sir George Wakeman was a wise and clever man. He was a man of great dignity and integrity, highly respected at court. The Queen's physician was also a zealous Roman Catholic. He was able to defend himself with great skill. The witnesses against him were Titus Gates and his accomplice Bedlow, and men such as they were no match for the wit and wisdom of a man like Sir George Wakeman.

Sir George exposed the two schemers for what they were in a manner which could not be doubted. Gates declared that he had recognized Sir George's signature on a document which was a receipt for money he had received from the plotters, but when he was presented with a number of different examples of handwriting and was asked to pick out Sir George's he had chosen one which was quite different from that of Sir George and which could never have been mistaken for his by anyone who had seen it before.

Moreover, the other accuser, Gates's confederate Bedlow, claimed an acquaintance with Sir George and declared he had become on intimate terms with him in his duty to discover how base he was.

Sir George replied that he had not seen Bedlow before this trial began and appealed to the court, asking them if they really believed he could have been on intimate terms with such a man.

Such a friendship would certainly seem incongruous and the Lord Chief Justice, in his summing up, stressed this. It was clearly due to him that Sir George was released.

This was the biggest blow that Gates had received since he first brought the Plot to the notice of the people. He was furious and vowed vengeance on Scroggs, which he attempted to carry out.

but when he had to face Scroggs in court he was completely outwitted by the Lord Chief Justice.

This was a major blow to Oates, and he must have known it. It was small wonder that, for the time being, he had no time to concern himself with what was happening in the remote countryside.

The Devil's Tower

Occasionally my father rode over to the Dower House. He liked to talk to Luke and to me. He was a strange man. Sometimes, when I was alone with him, I felt he was going to confide in me, tell me something about himself. Then he would become aloof and I would feel that I was merely a duty in his life, the result of an unfortunate mesalliance.

One day he visited the Dower House and I was alone there. He looked rather pleased to find me thus and I thought it would be one of those sessions when a certain intimacy seemed to creep into our relationship.

He looked at me rather searchingly as we sat together, and said: "You are growing up fast, Kate. You always seemed in advance of your years. When I am talking to you I feel I am not talking to a child but to a young woman."

I was pleased and showed it.

"You have not lived much with the young, Kate," he mused, and looked sad. "That might be a pity."

"I was very happy with my mother and Maggie ..."

"I know. And now?"

"It is not easy to forget. But I think I have ... a little."

"You are getting fond of the people here?"

"Oh, yes."

"Christobel has been a good friend, has she not?"

"Oh, yes."

"So I did well to procure her as your governess?"

"Yes. She has certainly taught me a great deal."

"And you are fond of your brother Luke and of Christobers brother? I fancy you are fond of him too."

I felt myself flush a little.

My father noticed and smiled. "Yes, I am aware of it. Well, he is a good young man. He will work until he has brought Featherston back to what it should be. James Morton says so, and he would know ... Kate, I think your friend Kirk well may be in some danger. What think you of what happened to Isaac Napp?"

A terrible fear took possession of me then. My father realized it and he took my hand and pressed it.

"The man was an informer, a spy of that accursed Gates, who has caused much misery to many. We must do what we can to stop him doing his mischief here."

I did not speak.

"I have news," he said. "Gates is sending men this way."

"Here?" I asked.

"He cannot allow one of his men to be despatched just like that. He will want revenge for the death of Napp."

"But they could not find those who killed him."

My father looked at me sadly. "Napp was indeed a rogue ... and a stranger here until that time. He is no great loss, and whoever sent him on his way doubtless had a good reason for doing so. But you see. Gates cannot allow that to happen to one of his men. It reflects on Gates himself, who considers himself the all-powerful avenger, and for his own sake he must protect his minions."

"So ... they will come here. But they will not find the murderer of Isaac Napp."

"Mayhap not. But they will find someone whom they will accuse of the murder."

"Gh no!" I said. And I heard my voice tremble as I spoke.

"There is a place on the estate," he said, not looking at me. "It is called the Devil's Tower, though no one speaks of it now. I have not heard it mentioned for years. It is said to be haunted. It is more or less a ruin. There is a roof over part of it, so it is secure in some places from the elements. It would provide shelter and, providing a man were not afraid of ghosts, he could be as safe there as anywhere. It is on Rosslyn territory, some way from the house. There is some old story about the place. All old families have these skeletons in their cupboards. Most of them get lost in people's memories as the years go by. I think a wayward daughter of our house was walled up in the Tower by some of her zealous relations. She is the ghost. She would be kind, I am sure, to fellow sufferers from tyranny. No one goes to the Tower now. In fact, the place is so overgrown that one can scarce force a way through to it."

There was meaning in his words. I knew that Oates's men were coming. They must find a scapegoat, and that could well be Kirkwell, who was such a friend of mine. It was certain that Oates's men would look to Kirkwell as one who had reason for hating the man whom he would regard as his father's murderer.

"I would like to show you this place," said my father. "Shall we take a ride together now?"

I said: "Yes, I should like to see the Devil's Tower."

When I left my father I found Christobel and told her where I had been and what my father had said.

"We must not lose any time," she said. "I must talk to Kirk without delay. He is in great danger."

We found him in one of the fields and I told him that my father had news that Oates's men had set out from London and were on their way to us.

"There is only one thing to do," said Christobel. "You must go away, Kirkwell, at once. They will suspect you immediately."

"They'll suspect me if I go away."

"Not if you go now, before they arrive. They will not know that you were aware that they were coming, so they will not think you have left on that account. I think we ought to speak to James. He is very wise, and I am sure he will agree that you must go."

I was in terror lest the men should arrive before Kirkwell could make his arrangements to leave, but I was sure that Christobel was right. He must not be here when they came and he must not appear to have gone away because of them.

When James was with us and heard what we planned, he was in favor of it. He said: "We shall immediately tell everyone we know that Kirkwell has had to go away on urgent business. He has left for the North. He left in such a hurry that there was little time to explain everything. It is to some.farmer in Yorkshire that he has gone."

"Will they not go searching for him?" I asked.

"They may, but they will not find him, for he will be in the Devil's Tower. It is ideal. People don't go near it. The undergrowth is so thick round it that it is forgotten except by those who know it is there."

"Then let us start immediately."

We told everyone we met that Kirkwell had been summoned up north on urgent business.

The Devil's Tower was indeed the ideal hiding place. It was in a remote part of the estate, and no one who had not heard of it would suspect it was there. Perhaps a century or so ago people might have talked of it and avoided going there, but the legend had become forgotten with time and it was only those who had an intimate knowledge of the land who were aware of its existence.

So to the Devil's Tower went Kirkwell. We took blankets and food for him and planned how one of us would visit him once a day, and when Oates's men had gone he would come back as though from his long journey north, and maybe we should not be troubled again by Titus Gates.

Three days after Kirkwell had settled into the Devil's Tower, Titus Oates's men arrived. They stayed at the iim, as they had before. The neighborhood was tense with anxiety. People cast down their eyes and hardly dared look at one another.

Many were questioned. The men came to the Dower House. They questioned Christobel and wanted to know when she had last seen her brother.

Carrie and I listened outside the door. We were in a state of terror.

Christobel was brave, but very frightened—not for herself, I knew, but for Kirkwell.

They also questioned Carrie. She did not know that we had been aware of the men's coming some days before they arrived; nor did she know where Kirkwell was hiding, so she could not be trapped into betrayal.

They questioned me as well.

"Do you know the man Kirkwell Carew?" they asked.

I said I did.

"When did you last see him?"

I told them it was the day before he left for the North.

"Did he go in a hurry?"

I looked puzzled. I did not think he went in a hurry, but he had told us only the day before that he had to go. He was not very pleased, because he was in the middle of restoring one of the houses on the estate, but he said he had better go and get it over with. The repairs would have to wait for his return.

"Did he say when he would return?"

"I think it was when his work up there was finished."

They did not pursue their questions. I had made myself look young and I behaved like a child. I think they accepted me as such.

It was a time of terrible anxiety. Kirkwell's whereabouts were a secret shared by Christobel, James, Luke and myself. Perhaps I should include my father, for, although he remained aloof from the matter, he was after all the one who had suggested that Kirkwell should go and where to.

I shall never forget that time. We took it in turns to visit Kirkwell, just in case one of us should by some remote chance be seen going to the same place too often.

I remember now the eeriness of the place and the fear I felt when approaching it, which was not all due to the danger of the mission.

I made my way through the undergrowth. It was not easy. Branches of shrubs caught at my cloak. I had the feeling that they were trying to hold me back and imprison me. It was quite uncanny. I suppose a kind of aura of horror grows about a place in which something terrible has happened. As I battled my way through the shrubs, I could not stop thinking of the young girl who had been "wayward"—I supposed that meant she had an illicit lover—and had had this dreadful punishment inflicted on her. What was it like, I wondered, to be put into a cavity and have the wall built up around you, leaving you shut in ... alone, without air, without food, to await death?

And something equally terrible could happen to Kirkwell if he were discovered.

I shivered. The world was a fearful place when people could be walled up and left to die and men like Titus Oates could bring death and misery to thousands of people.

Kirk well was waiting eagerly to greet me.

He put his arms round me and stroked my face, as though to assure himself that I was real.

"Oh, Kate, little Kate ... they shouldn't have let you come."

"Of course I came. Christobel, Luke and James ... they come when they can."

"You are only a little girl. Oh, Kate," he said, "can you believe this? Here I am, running away. Why did I not stop and face that devil?"

"Because it would be foolish of you to do so."

"I did not kill that man."

"That makes no difference if Titus Oates says you did, and he could. We have to face that. Kirk well. He does not hesitate to lie. Oh, Kirkwell, you will be safe here. Nobody comes here."

He put out a rug over the broken tiles of the floor, and we sat on it, our backs to the brick wall, which was covered with lichen in places.

"I have good friends. My sister ... you, and the others. What is happening?"

"The men are here, as you know."

"Yes, they are questioning people. They are asking where I am.

"It was good that you left before it was known that they were on the way. No one can say that you have left because of them."

"But they are asking about me. They have doubtless decided that they are taking me as their victim."

"We are not going to allow that."

"Oh, Kate, my stalwart protector! I cannot tell you what it means to me to see you here. It was due to you, was it not, that I am here?"

"It was due to my father."

"Yes, it seems to me that he too is my friend." He put his arm about me. "We have become very special friends, have we not, Kate?"

"Yes, we have.''

"From the first time I saw you, there was something about you that made you different from other people."

"Was there? They say I am old for my years."

"That may be so. Kate, grow up quickly, will you?"

"I suppose I am subject to time, like everyone else."

He kissed me lightly on the tip of my nose.

"It is strange here, is it not? Do you know the story? Those of us whose families have always lived in the neighborhood are familiar with it. It happened in this tower. I have not thought of it for years, but I remember it now as I he here, particularly at night, when I hear the sounds of all the wild creatures who live around here. I hear a fox now and then ... creatures creeping through the undergrowth ... the cries of birds. They sound strange in the night. One grows a little fanciful at night in such a place."

"Do you think of that poor girl who is said to have been walled up here?"

"Sometimes ... and it makes me think of what would happen to me if Oates's men were to discover that I am here. Sometimes I think I hear them making their way through the undergrowth ... but it is always some animal. I suppose I am expecting them to come."

"They will not! They will not! We are so careful; and they cannot say that you went away to escape them, because people here believe that you went before you knew they were com-mg.

"And you, little Kate, what if they knew you were visiting me ... bringing me food?"

"They will not know."

"You are taking a risk. I shall never forget you took this risk for me, Kate."

"And so are James and Christobel and the others."

"I shall remember you more, Kate."

"Soon they will go away. Then you will return from the North, your business settled, and life will go back to what it was before all this started."

"Oh, Kate, will it ever be the same again? I lie here and think of my father, and I think of their coming here. They would find me guilty, not only because I hid myself, but because they were determined to. I shall never really be free while Titus Oates lives, Kate."

"Kirk we 11. it is not like you to be so despairing."

"No. Blame this place. It seems so remote from the world."

"That is why it is such a good hiding place. They will never find you here."

"How long shall I be a prisoner here?"

"Until the men have gone."

"Kate, I want you to know that I love you dearly."

"Oh. Kirk well. I love you too. I love you and Christobel. She has been like a sister to me."

"I am glad." he said. "If I come through this ... and when you have grown up a little ..."

"Yes, Kirk well, what then?"

"Then you and I will talk more of this."

After I had left him I thought of what he had said. I believed he was telling me that he loved me. I might have been young, but, as they always said, I was advanced for my years. I knew that he v^-as telling me that one day, if we continued to feel as we did now, we might be married.

I must have shown that I cared for him. My father had seen it.

Was it for this reason that he had mentioned the Devil's Tower? Was it done for me?

Tension was growing. More people were questioned and no one felt safe. I had a strong feeling that if Kirkwell had been here he would have been accused, however completely he could have proved his innocence. And if they had determined to make him their scapegoat and did not go, for how long could he stay in the tower?

Each day either Christobel, James or myself would go to the Devil's Tower with provisions: we grew increasingly afraid that someone would notice us.

Oates's men were becoming impatient, and with each passing day the danger grew closer. Everyone in the place lived in fear that in desperation they would select someone—anyone: it would not matter to them, as long as they had their culprit.

The matter was resolved in an unexpected manner.

Farmer Blake, of Fifty Acres Farm, was discovered by his ploughman in one of his barns. He had hanged himself from the rafters and people were talking of nothing else.

The night before he died, he had gone to the rector and made a confession. The rector was so startled by these revelations that he thought it his duty to write them down so that he could assure himself that he had heard them correctly and could then consider what action he should take.

Farmer Blake, it appeared, had, one year before, married Betty Drew, the daughter of one of his cowmen. Betty was a handsome, plump young woman and she had a merry way with her, whereas Farmer Blake's wife had been an invalid confined to her bed for the previous five years. Farmer Blake confessed that he had lusted after Betty while his wife still lived and had married her in indecent haste three months after his wife's death, which was doubtless why the Lord had seen fit to punish him.

One day, when he had had to be away on business at Nether Stowey, he had told Betty that he would be home at about six of the clock, and added: "You can never be sure, and I reckon I'll be lucky if I am back by seven."

However, Farmer Blake's business was concluded with far more speed than he had anticipated, with the result that by five o'clock he was on his way home to the farmhouse, thinking to give Betty a pleasant surprise. Passing along to the farmhouse, he had heard whispering voices coming from one of the barns. He thought it was some children playing there, and that was something he would not have. He opened the door and went in. He could not believe what he saw. There was Betty, and with her Isaac Napp, together caught in the act of adultery.

So lost in their sin were they that they were unaware that Farmer Blake had opened the door of the barn. He was amazed that his wife could behave so, and with this man who had professed to be in the service of the Lord, purging the world of Catholicism. Farmer Blake thought his legs would not carry him, but they did, out of the barn where he stood for a while, bewildered, unable to grasp the fact that his new wife was a wanton, and not what he had blindly supposed her to be.

He found himself back in the farmhouse. His anger was hot and he began to plan vengeance. It was not Betty he hated so much: she was a young girl, led astray, he convinced himself, by the Devil masquerading as a man of the Lord.

He was so distressed he did not know what to do, so he did nothing. He said nothing to anyone ... not even to Betty who, when she found him at home, showed no sign of guilt and was just as usual.

The next day Farmer Blake went in pursuit of Isaac Napp. He told Betty he would be late back that evening. That he had to go out to see a builder in Bridgwater who would not be at his place until six of the clock, so he would be leaving at thirty minutes past five and could not say at what hour he would return, but he thought it would be eight before he got back to the house.

Then he lay in wait. He knew the way Isaac Napp would come. Bordering on the edge of the farm was a copse through which he must pass. He would lead his horse through to the other side on foot, as most people did, taking the way to the farm from there.

Farmer Blake was waiting in the copse and, creeping up behind Napp, he gave him a blow on the head which felled him.

"Adulterer!" shouted Farmer Blake.

The way in which Napp looked at Farmer Blake told him that he knew he had discovered the truth about him. He opened his mouth to protest. Isaac Napp would always find the words to explain that it was all a mistake or something similar. But the farmer had seen with his own eyes and, as he said, the picture of them caught in sin was something he would see for the rest of his life.

He put his hands about Napp's neck and pressed and pressed.

Isaac Napp was a comparatively young man, which Farmer Blake was not. The farmer was not sure that he had killed his victim, and he knew that it was very important that he should, so he dragged him to the stream and laid him face down in the water. And while Betty waited in the barn for her lover, her husband was watching him die.

Farmer Blake convinced himself for a while that it was no sin to kill such an evil man. It was his just reward for what he had done. And so life went on more or less as usual until he heard that Titus Oates*s men had come to look for the killer.

Then his conscience began to worry him. Also, he gravely feared that he might have betrayed himself in some way, and he did not want to hang for murder. For this was no ordinary murder. One of Titus Oates's men had been done to death. What would happen to the man who had been responsible for that?

Farmer Blake was then very much afraid, but he reckoned that he had had the right to kill a man who had sinned against him as Isaac Napp had, that the Lord would understand more easily than Titus Gates, and he was less afraid of his Maker than of that other. So, after some deliberation, he decided to take his own life.

All this he told the rector the night before he committed suicide. The rector had told him it was a sin to kill himself; his life was God's and it was for Him to give it or take it; and had offered to pray with him for guidance.

Meanwhile the men from London were asking a great many questions and some of those questioned knew Farmer Blake well. The investigation was getting nearer and nearer. Poor Farmer Blake was becoming more and more distraught.

Apparently he could bear no more. He did not want to listen to what the rector had to say: he did not want to pray for forgiveness and to give himself up, which was surely what he would be told to do. Life had lost its savor. It was not what he had believed it to be. He could not forget the sight of Betty in the barn with Isaac Napp.

So he went into the barn that night and hanged himself.

The case was solved. It had to be accepted by all that the murderer of Isaac Napp was Farmer Blake, and his reason for his action was clear to all.

There was nothing for Oates's men to do but close the case and go back to London.

And within a reasonable space of time, so as not to arouse suspicion, Kirkwell returned to Featherston Manor.

Time was passing, it seemed, at great speed. I was growing up fast and would soon be fifteen—no longer a child.

Life was pleasant and interesting. I had Christobel, my brother Luke, Kirkwell and James Morton and Sebastian Adams. We were all good friends and, in spite of my youth, I was one of them. We enjoyed being together, and one of the main topics of conversation was politics. The King had an illness which had sent a shiver of apprehension through the country, and the subject of the succession was discussed everywhere with more intensity than usual. Fortunately he recovered: he was seen sauntering in the park, enjoying the company of several women and making witty remarks in his old manner, and the country breathed a sigh of relief. The King would live a few more years and perhaps by then some solution would have been found.

We all took different sides in our discussions. Luke was in favor of the succession of the Duke of Monmouth. He was the King's son, Luke insisted, a little defiantly. Poor Luke! Just like the Duke, he longed to be accepted as his father's son. Monmouth yearned for a kingdom, Luke for Rosslyn Manor and recognition as Lord Rosslyn's son. It was little wonder that he stood for Monmouth. He said it was because the country would only accept a Protestant King, but I suspected he wanted to say it was the right of bastards to inherit if there were no legitimate sons to come before them.

Sebastian Adams was for law and order, and the law said that the Duke of York was heir. James Morton was inclined to agree.

Kirkwell believed that if the Duke of York came to the throne, there would be trouble, as there would be if Monmouth succeeded. He said we should have to wait and see. He wanted what was best for the country, but also that the country should not be involved in civil war.

And so we talked: and we were all convinced that it was a question for the future, for the King had many years to live, and while he did we could go along in our pleasant, easy way.

Now and then Christobel and I went to London. We would stay with Maggie, who was delighted to see us. She told me that she was glad I had gone to the Dower House. She missed me, of course, but it was better for me to be there, and when the time came my father, she believed, would do what was right and proper.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Find a husband for me?"

"Whatever is right and proper," she insisted.

I was a little uneasy at the thought, but I put it from my mind. It was a long way off yet, I told myself.

She told me that Titus Gates was gradually losing his power.

There had been one or two cases from which he had emerged rather badly. Lord Chief Justice Scroggs had set the fashion. Others had discovered that they need not bow to Oates's wishes, for they could avoid doing so without fear of retaliation. He was still there, still struggling to continue in his evil ways, but the tide was turning against him and he was no longer the man of power he had been.

We always enjoyed those visits to London. It was well worth the uncomfortable journey to see Maggie and get all the news.

Francine

Christobel and I had always taken frequent rides. We both loved the countryside and one day, as we were riding through a narrow lane where it was necessary to fall into single file, we heard the sound of horses' hooves coming towards us in the opposite direction. Christobel was ahead and we both moved as close to the hedge as possible to allow whoever was coming to pass.

I saw a woman, very straight, rather angular, in an elegantly cut riding habit. Another woman rode behind her.

"Good morning. Lady Rosslyn," said Christobel in a very respectful voice. "Good morning. Mistress Galloway."

The woman who was in front returned Christobel's greeting with a curt nod. The other lady smiled rather hesitantly at her.

Then Lady Rosslyn was on a level with me. The look she gave me made me shiver, for it really seemed quite malevolent. Then she lowered her eyes, as though she did not wish to look at me, and passed on by. The other lady, who was quite a contrast, was plump and rosy-cheeked, rather subdued in manner. She also gave me a hesitant smile, having looked at me quickly and lowered her eyes as she passed.

When they were out of earshot, Christobel said: "Well, that was unfortunate."

"Why?"

"Meeting like that. She had to look at us."

"It was ... my father's wife, was it not?"

"It was indeed. A very haughty lady, as you saw, and not very pleased to come face to face with a reminder of her husband's misdeeds."

"You mean ... me?"

"Don't look so unhappy. I wonder we haven't met before. It would have been better if we had not been quite so close. But meeting in the lane like that ... well, it was like forcing ourselves upon her ladyship's notice, was it not?"

"She did not like me, I could see."

"You could scarcely expect her to welcome you with honeyed words, could you?"

"No, but ..."

"I know. You're going to say it was no fault of yours. Nor was it. Whose fault, then? Hers? For not producing the desired offspring? I doubt not that my lord would have had his little adventures in any case. Well, don't let it disturb you, dear child. The lady does not like you. Is it because you remind her of her husband's irrepressible gallantries or of her own shortcomings? Who can say? So let us forget the matter."

"And the other lady?"

"Mistress Margaret Galloway—a connection of her ladyship who lives on her bounty, I believe, and is her constant companion. Now, don't fret, you're hardly likely to come into such close contact again with her ladyship, and that was only a brief encounter."

So Christobel dealt with the matter in her own lighthearted way.

Over the next year or so I did see Lady Rosslyn again on one or two occasions—not in a narrow lane, but on the road, and Christobel, who was invariably with me, would receive the brief nod of recognition while I was given a quick glance before being completely ignored.

One day when we rode over to Featherston, Carrie had news for us.

"What do you think?" she said. "Lady Rosslyn has been taken ill."

"Very ill?" asked Christobel.

Carrie nodded. "She's had a seizure. They didn't think she'd live ... but she's come through. I met Mistress Hardy, who cooks in the kitchens at the Manor, and she told me all about it."

"And you are going to tell us," said Christobel.

"If you want to hear," retorted Carrie.

"You know we are all agog."

"Well, it seems she cannot walk. She was all seized down one side. They say she can't talk much either. That cousin of hers found her. She went in one morning and there her ladyship was. They've had the doctor up there. They say his lordship is sending for some doctor from London. He's on his way. The cousin will be there looking after her. They've been together for years ... almost as soon as she came to the Manor, so she'll stay to look after her."

"Is she ... ?" asked Christobel.

"Not yet. They say there's a chance she'll live. But, poor thing, what's life going to be like when you can't move and can't speak?"

I thought of that proud, arrogant woman whom I had met in the lane, unable to move ... unable to speak ... depending on others. In spite of everything, I felt an immense pity for her.

Later we heard that Lady Rosslyn was still alive and that the cousin. Mistress Margaret Galloway, was indeed looking after her.

There was one matter which was giving me cause for thought above all else, and that was the relationship between Christobel and James Morton. It was gradually brought to my notice that they preferred each other's company to that of any other. Christobel and I often met him when we were riding and then I had the distinct impression that, although he was always friendly towards me, he would have been happier if Christobel had been alone.

Therefore I was not altogether surprised when, one day, as Christobel and I sat reading in that little room in the Dower House which had been set aside for what were called my "lessons," she suddenly said to me: "James wants me to marry him."

"And are you going to?" I asked.

"Of course," she said.

So they were betrothed. There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed. James was manager of the Rosslyn estate and so had a good home to offer her. He was on excellent terms with Lord Rosslyn and mingled with the guests on occasions, as my mother had told me my grandfather had done all those years ago on the estate he had managed.

So plans for the wedding were discussed at great length.

I should not see so much of Christobel when she was married, of course, but she would be close at hand, so it was not as though we should have to face a sad farewell. We had become so much a part of each other's lives that that would have been a very great wrench, but why contemplate it when it was not to take place?

I had had occasional meetings with my father over the years I had been at the Dower House and one day he rode over to see Luke and me. Luke happened to be out, for my father had not announced his coming, and, as Christobel was with James, my father and I were alone together.

He said: "I wanted to talk to you alone, Kate. I will talk to Luke later, for this concerns him too. This coming marriage will mean that Christobel will no longer be here and you will be without your governess. You and she have been friends and I have seen how she has brought you along. But of course she will have other duties now."

I wondered if he were contemplating providing me with a new governess.

I said: "I am not a child any more. I shall be sixteen soon. Christobel has said that there is little more she can teach me."

He nodded. "Christobel has been a good companion for you ... and will still be your friend. But I have been thinking a good deal about your future, yours and Luke's. I am going to bring you both to the Manor. I have wanted to do this for a long time."

I gasped.

"The idea does not please you?" he enquired.

"I ... I don't know. It is so unexpected that I never thought ..."

"I should have brought you there in the beginning, but there were difficulties."

I knew the one difficulty. The haughty lady whom I had met in the lane would be the chief obstacle, I supposed.

"Kate," he said, "I want you to understand ..."

"I know you have done what you could for us ..."I began.

"I want to tell you of this myself. You are my daughter, Kate. That means a great deal to me. And Luke is my son. I fancy you are a little fond of me."

"But of course. You have been kind to me."

"I mean as a father."

"Well, yes ... a kind of father."

"A kind of father," he said rather sadly. "I wish I could have been more like a real one. You see, it would have been very difficult for me at the time."

"I know."

"I think you know a great deal about the situation, Kate."

"My mother told me when she knew she was dying. She thought I ought to know."

"I loved your mother dearly, you know that, Kate."

"Did you? And yet ..."

"You know about my deceit, of course."

"Yes, she told me that too."

"You must have thought I was a very wicked man."

I was silent.

"Thoughtless ..." he went on. "In the society in which I lived, it was something which men did. It was thought to be rather amusing, God forgive us. Your mother was different from others. Most of the ladies involved in such matters would have settled for a good endowment of some sort ... but not your mother. She would have nothing. I was wrong. I was wicked. Please understand, Kate."

"I think I do."

"You are a wise girl. I would like you to look upon me as your father ... not as a kind of father, but as a real one."

"Yes," I said.

"I was not happily married. There was no love between us, even in the beginning. My wife and I were chosen for each other. The basic idea of our families was for us to make a suitable marriage. My family had been in existence in this county since 1066 and we believed the family had to go on. It was our first duty to continue the unbroken line, and, of course, we failed in that. It was ironical ... for it was the sole purpose of the marriage."

"It would have been better perhaps if you had married for love."

"Ah, who shall say? What I want you to understand is why I could not bring you to the Manor before, because ..."

"Because of your wife?"

"You do understand? So, the next best thing was to install you and Luke in the Dower House."

"But she knew we were here."

"It was not like being under the same roof."

"She is still at the Manor."

"Kate, she is unaware. She does not know who she is or where she is. She is looked after by her cousin, who has always been with her, but she often does not recognize her. Christobel will be married soon. You are growing up. I want you to live as my daughter ... which you are. You, my children, you and Luke, I want you to be near me, so I am arranging for you to come to the Manor after Christobel is married."

When Luke came in my father was still there. When my brother heard the news he was overcome with joy.

After my father had left, Luke said to me: "This means that we are really acknowledged."

I pointed out that we were before.

"This is different. I am my father's son, you are his daughter. Who knows?"

I hoped he was not going to be too ambitious, for I feared he would be disappointed. I knew his greatest desire was to own Rosslyn Manor. But he should remember that that matter was all settled, and that Sebastian was there because he had been chosen to inherit the estate.

Luke went around with brightly shining eyes. I was less euphoric. I thought of living in that house from which I had been excluded all these years because its mistress was that cold-eyed woman who had passed us in the lane. I was not entirely convinced that she would be unaware of the fact that her husband was bringing his illegitimate children into her home.

I could not feel elated in such circumstances.

Christobel was married at the beginning of the year and Luke and I went to live at Rosslyn Manor.

I was overawed as we passed over the old drawbridge, and I looked up at those gray towers. Gray-stoned, rounded arches, and those thick walls built to last for centuries—which they had.

I was to discover that a great deal of the Manor House had been restored over the years and it was possible here and there to detect touches of the more decorative Tudor style of linenfold paneling in some of the rooms.

The Dower House, of course, had been built much later and lacked that air of brooding antiquity which belonged to an earlier age.

I was given a room which was reached by way of a spiral staircase. It had a high vaulted ceiling and the size of the room dwarfed the four-poster bed, two chests and the carved wardrobe. The windows were long and narrow. Originally, of course, they would have been glassless, but fortunately that had now been rectified.

I had been given a maid called Amy. She must have guessed that I was unused to such grandeur and asked me if she could help me to dress. I told her I could manage very well, as I always had, and she said that if there was anything I needed I had only to call her. She was about my own age and, for that reason it was rather comforting to know that she was there.

That first night Luke and I dined with Sebastian and my father. The meal was served in what was called the small dining room, though it looked far from small to me. It was hung with tapestries depicting the Battle of Hastings which looked as if they might have been worked soon after that memorable event.

There were two other large tapestries in the room and I gathered that these represented scenes from a more recent conflict—the Wars of the Roses—and, seeing Luke regarding them in wonder, my father told him that he would see many such scenes throughout the house, usually depicting the part the family had played in these events.

"We were not always on the winning side," he explained, "but we keep quiet about those occasions. With the Wars of the Roses it was different. Although we were on the side of York, which did not bring us much glory when the Tudors came, we recovered, and Henry VII was too wise to remain unfriendly to a family like ours and we soon returned to favor. We retrieved those estates which we had lost, and, as the royal marriage of Henry to Elizabeth of York united the two houses, the tapestries were hung and have remained here ever since."

He went on to talk of the family. Sebastian joined in and said he would show us the interesting parts of the house. It would take us some time to become familiar with it. It certainly had in his case, though now he knew it almost as well as my father.

Luke listened, his eyes gleaming. I felt a twinge of uneasiness. I hoped he would remember that, although he belonged to this family, he could never be accepted as legitimate and this house could never be his.

When I returned to my room that night. Amy appeared to see if I wanted anything.

I rather liked her. Perhaps it was because I realized she could not have been much older than I, and she herself was a little uncertain, though she did her best to hide it. I wondered what it was like to come and work in a house like this. She must feel gratified because she was to look after me—who was as ignorant of the way life was lived in the house as she was herself.

I told her I was all right, and could look after myself.

She nodded. "Well, I hope you sleep well. Mistress. And if there is anything you need ..."

"I will let you know," I said. "Good night."

I stood in the middle of that room and then thought that the silent house seemed to shut me in. I looked over my shoulder quickly, as though I expected to see someone standing there. I felt that eyes were watching me from every part of the room, so that if I turned to escape one pair I would be immediately in range of another.

It was foolish, fanciful. This was the effect such ancient houses had on people. The Dower House had been cozy, with Christobel in the next room, and Mistress Longton not far off. No ghost would ever intrude in her house, I was sure. And Featherston was cozy too—or it had been until that terrible time when Sir Harold had been taken away and never seen again.

I undressed and got into bed. I blew out my candle but sleep was impossible. There was a half moon which shone in through the window, and I remembered my first night at the Dower House. Christobel had been close to me there. Here I felt isolated. I wondered how Luke was faring. He was doubtless dreaming of the glories of the Rosslyns and of this mansion, which was theirs and which he coveted.

Oh, Luke, I thought, take care.

I was tired and longed for sleep. Alas, it remained elusive and my mind raced on. I was back in Maggie's house. My mother was there, dressing to go to the theater. I was sitting beside her, hearing her lines as she completed her toilette. It all seemed so long ago. And now I was here. Christobel was married and I had come with Luke to my father's house—this great mansion which was bigger and far more grand than anything I had ever imagined.

I must have dozed. I saw a woman's face as I lay in bed. She was coming towards me. She had a look of disdain on her hard, cold features which turned to anger as she bent closer to me.

I awoke with a start. I sat up in bed. Just a nightmare. Foolish, but natural, I suppose. Lady Rosslyn had made a deep impression on me, and now here I was ... living under the same roof ... because she was so ill that she was unable to protest.

I felt I should never sleep. I was not sure I wanted to. I was afraid of the nightmares. It had been horrifying to see her face so close to mine, and dreams are like reality while they last.

It was to be expected that my first night in a house like this would be restless. It would have been different if I had been born here and had lived the whole of my life here. It would be my home. But that was not so. I was here because my mother had gone through a mock marriage, a practice indulged in by degenerate young men whose main occupation seemed to be to think of outrageous adventures. If they involved others, that was just bad luck for them.

I thought suddenly of the Duke of Monmouth and his friends shtting Sir John Coventry's nose and killing a beadle. That was the way they amused themselves.

I felt a sudden longing for Maggie's simple household where everyone seemed good and kind and wanted to help each other. I thought of the Dower House and Mistress Longton, and Christobel, and Featherston and Kirkwell close by, and suddenly I wanted to go on like that. I did not want to live in a grand house where ghosts seemed to be lurking in every corner.

Luke might be delighted to be here ... but was I?

I yawned. I would become accustomed to it, I supposed. It was interesting. Full of history, as I had heard. It was exciting. Oh yes, it was just that this was my first night in a new place.

I felt calmer after such consideration and in a short time I was asleep.

I awoke startled. The moonlight was streaming into the room. It was still night. Something had awakened me. What? I asked myself. Someone was in the room.

My heart was beating fast. I sat up in bed and said, rather hoarsely, "Who is there?"

There was silence in the room. I listened, but all I could hear was the heavy beating of my own heart.

I thought I heard a footstep. It was close.

I said again: "Who is it?"

There was no response. I got out of bed and looked around me. Then I noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

I knew I had shut it before I had got into the bed. I had made quite sure of it.

I went to it and looked out. I saw the spiral staircase at the other end of the corridor where there was another leading upwards. There was no sign of anyone.

But I knew someone had come into my room. The open door assured me of that.

Who? Why?

I thought immediately of Lady Rosslyn's cold, hard face, her look of contempt before she had forced it into one of indifference. Impossible. She was crippled ... unable to walk.

I went back into my room and firmly shut the door. I stood for a moment leaning against it. It was strange ... uncanny. Who had come into my room while I slept, and for what purpose?

I longed to be back in the Dower House. I wanted to talk to Christobel.

I went back to bed. I lay there, alert, listening for the sound of a step in the corridor, the slow cautious opening of the door.

No one came, and it was almost six of the clock before I fell at last into a doze.

Amy's tap at the door awoke me the next morning. I started up in panic. That experience last night was still with me.

"Good morning, Mistress," she said. "I trust you slept well."

I said: "Thank you, Amy." I could not tell her that I had scarcely slept at all.

She brought me hot water. I washed, put on a riding habit and went downstairs. One of the first things I would do would be to ride over to Christobel and tell her of my impressions and experience in the mansion.

Luke was already down in the dining room, sitting at the table eating.

"What a fantastic place!" he said, his eyes shining.

"Did you sleep well?" I asked.

"But of course. I had a wonderful room in one of the towers. Octagonal, an odd shape for a room, with slit-like windows. I suppose they used to pour down boiling oil from them on their enemies."

"That would surely have been from the battlements," I said.

I felt quite hungry, so I helped myself to bread and meat and a flagon of ale.

Sebastian came in. He told us that he was going to show us part of the house—the part we lived in. He could tell us quite a few facts about it.

"You cannot take it in all at once," he said. "It's vast, like a village, really. I do not yet know all those who serve us. There are so many. But I am learning much."

"It must be fascinating," said Luke enviously.

"I'll show you something of it this morning if you like. Had you plans?"

"I was hoping to go over to see Christobel, and perhaps go to Featherston."

"You can do those things this afternoon," said Sebastian.

"I am looking forward to getting to know the house," said Luke.

It was a long tour and very interesting. But I was thinking all the time of Lady Rosslyn, who was somewhere in this house, and wondering who it was who had come to my room last night.

I could not ask Sebastian. He would have no idea who it could have been. He would dismiss it as fancy, doubtless. I supposed many would. So I gave my attention to the house and learned of its history, how King Edward IV had stayed here with his mistress, Jane Shore, the goldsmith's wife, and other ladies at other times.

"He was a good king, but a little like our present Majesty, devoted to the ladies. Odd, is it not, how these kings live their rather—shall we say—dissolute lives, yet serve their country well. Whereas poor Henry VI was a real saint, and look where he led his country ... into war. And the same with His Majesty's father ... though perhaps we are too close to speak of these matters. Well, his present Majesty, for all that can be said, is hardly a virtuous man, as he would be the first to admit, yet he keeps us at peace, while his father, a faithful husband and a man bent on doing good, led us to war and lost his own head and brought to his family years of royal wandering in the wilderness—or rather on the Continent, living in exile, hoping to regain the throne."

And so we wandered through the house, up spiral staircases to the top of towers, looking right down to the ground, many feet below. We saw that spot where one lady of the noble house had thrown herself to her death because her husband no longer loved her, and looked across to the Devil's Tower, where another had been walled up because she had dallied with a lover.

In a house such as this, such legends lived on.

No wonder that the first night anyone spent in it was a restless one. The place was drenched in memories of past tragedies.

"That is the east wing of the house," Sebastian told me. "Lady Rosslyn has her apartments there. She always keeps to that part of the house. It is almost like separate households. And now she is there with her cousin. Mistress Galloway, who has been with her for years. I think she prefers to live apart from everyone. I dare say Lord Rosslyn visits her from time to time, but I have spoken with her only once or twice."

"It seems so strange. She is Lady Rosslyn, and yet there are two households."

Sebastian shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps it has been decided that it is better that way. Now Lady Rosslyn is confined to her couch. As I said, it is like a separate household, and, as you will have seen, this house is big enough to make that possible."

So we continued our tour of the house.

I thought: It is only the strangeness of it all that makes me feel uncertain.

Luke was different. There was no doubt that he was delighted to be here.

That afternoon I rode over to see Christobel.

She greeted me with delight. She had changed since her marriage. Her face had softened considerably and she was obviously pleased with life.

"Now tell me,'' she said, when we were settled in the charming room overlooking the garden, which she herself was tending with care. "How do you like living at the grand ancestral home?"

"I am not sure yet. I have really had so little experience of it."

"So it has not overwhelmed you yet?"

"No."

"You sound a little regretful."

"I was very happy at the Dower House, and of course also at Maggie's."

"And not at Rosslyn Manor?"

"It is early yet. Christobel, there is a rather eerie atmosphere about the place."

"It is always so, with old houses. So much has happened there, and the past clings and will not be dismissed. There will certainly have been tragedies over the years, and such things are remembered more than the happy times, I'll warrant. But you are happy ... to be there, under your father's roof?"

"He is not like an ordinary father. All those years, I did not know him."

"I always thought you had a respect for him. And one good thing he did. He brought us together. I like him for that."

"Oh, so do I, Christobel. We shall be friends forever."

"If it is in my power, so be it. Has it occurred to you that he might have plans for you?"

"What plans?"

"Well, you are almost a young lady now. A few more months and you will be standing on the threshold of adventure."

"You mean ... my father will find a husband for me? Christobel, I would rather find my own."

"Oh, but you are the daughter of Lord Rosslyn, and even if you did not become so by the most conventional of methods, you are still his daughter."

"Perhaps he will think of his own marriage. That was arranged for him, and it was not the most satisfactory of marriages."

"People always believe that the way they arrange things will be perfect."

"I shall be firm and strong. I shall be as you are, Christobel. After all, you more or less brought me up, did you not? I am a little like you, you know."

"But I was only the daughter of an impoverished gentleman."

"And I am only the natural daughter of Lord Rosslyn. No, I shall choose for myself."

"You speak with such conviction that I ask myself if you have already chosen?"

"Matrimony is not uppermost in my mind, and what I wanted to tell you about was a strange thing that happened during the night."

"Last night? Your first at Rosslyn Manor?"

"Yes. I couldn't sleep."

"Natural enough. Your first night in the grand old mansion. Creaking boards ... dark alcoves ... just the sort of house where ghosts would lurk. Was there not someone who threw herself from one of the towers, and wasn't there that unfortunate girl who was built into the walls?"

"That was in the Devil's Tower."

"Of course. Where Kirk hid when that obnoxious Oates man was prowling around. That was an alarming time, was it not? Well, ghosts have their uses when a place like the Devil's Tower can be used. But what about this nightly adventure?"

"As you've guessed, I could not sleep ... but I dozed after a hile, and then I was awake. Something had startled me. Christobel, someone had come into my room."

"You must have dreamed it."

"No. The door was open. I think someone was there, looking at me. I awoke and whoever it was slipped out by the door and did not close it. I thought I heard a step in the corridor, but when I looked out there was no one there."

"You must have forgotten to close the door completely. It moved and awakened you, and because you were a little overexcited to find yourself in such grand, antique surroundings, you thought someone was there."

"I do not believe that."

"But who would want to inspect you by night, when they would have a good chance of doing so by daylight?"

"I do not know. That is why it was rather mysterious ... a little unsettling."

"Well, whoever it was scuttled off when there was a chance of being discovered. The easiest explanation is that the door was not closed properly. Many things in those old houses are a little faulty. Have they not been in place for many years? Forget it. Go to bed tonight and get some untroubled sleep. Life has become exciting for you. You are acknowledged. Maggie will be delighted, I am sure. You will often have exciting times, I'll swear, because your father will not want to keep you in the country. He will take you to London. I'll swear you will be presented to the King. My dear, dear Kate. You have become very grand. Soon you will not deign to visit my lord's estate manager's wife."

"That will never be so," I said indignantly. "It will always be one of my greatest pleasures."

"Bless you," said Christobel happily. "I know it will."

After I had left Christobel I rode over to Featherston Manor. I was told that Kirk well was working in his office, so I went there. I said: "Kirk, you are busy. It is a difficult time."

"Never too busy to see you, Kate," he said. "Come in and tell me all about it."

"You mean first impressions and so on. Well, it is rather an awe-inspiring place."

"And you are regretting leaving the Dower House?"

"It wouldn't have been the same without Christobel. I have just left her."

"She is very happy," he said. "James is a fine fellow."

"It was wonderful that they met. I saw it coming for some time. Did you?"

"Oh yes, it was obvious. I am so glad." He looked at me a little wistfully. "But of course it has brought about this change for you, though I dare say you would have gone up to Rosslyn Manor at some time ... even if not just yet."

"Yes, it was bound to mean change."

"Oh, Kate, I wish you were not there. It is going to change everything. If your father has plans for you ... I mean, if he is going to take you into grand society ... you will not see very much of your old friends."

"Of course I shall. You, Christobel and James ... you will always be my best friends."

He looked a little sad.

"Don't forget us, will you, Kate?"

"What nonsense! As if I would!" I paused and, because I felt emotional, I went on quickly, "How is everything going here?"

"Do you know, I am beginning to feel gratified. My work has not been in vain. We are becoming ... well, scarcely prosperous, but shall I say, showing signs of improvement."

"That's wonderful. You've worked so hard."

"It is very gratifying. It seems that everything is working according to plan. Then this happens, and you go to Rosslyn Manor, and I'm a little anxious about that."

I laid my hand on his arm, and he took it and kept it firmly in his.

"Don't be," I said. "What are you worried about?"

"That you will change. That you won't be our Kate any more, you'll be a grand lady. Your father will have plans for you."

I laughed.

"Nonsense," I said. "Whatever happens, I shall always be your Kate."

Amy and I were becoming good friends. She confessed to me that she had never been in such a grand place before, and she couldn't believe her ears when she was told she was going to be my maid.

"And when I saw you were only a girl ... beg pardon, Mistress Kate, but you are young."

I laughed. "You thought you were going to have some haughty lady, and found it was someone of your own age who was as new to the house as you were. I had been living at the Dower House for a long time."

"Yes, I know that now. Miss. I did not know it when I was told. Mistress Clancy, the housekeeper, only told me I was to look after his lordship's daughter, and that sounded very grand."

"Well, now you see that there is nothing to be afraid of."

She had in a few days become my friend. She was determined to look after me in every possible way, and I was glad of her.

I felt lonely. My father had gone away; and Luke seemed different. He was obsessed by the house, learning all he could about it. He was often in Sebastian's company. I was a little alarmed, for there were times when I caught a slight resentment in him when his gaze fell on Sebastian. I hoped Sebastian was not aware of it.

From Amy I gleaned certain information about the household— quite different from the kind sought by Luke.

I learned about the people who inhabited the house.

There was an army of servants. It was inevitable with a place of that size. Many of them had been there for years, as their parents had before them. Sebastian had said that Rosslyn Manor was like a village, and I saw now how very right he had been.

Besides the grooms, who lived in the stables which were very extensive, there were the servants who lived in the tower and many others who had cottages on the estate, and most of those who worked in the grounds and gardens. There was also the home farm, which supplied most of the household's needs.

It was from Amy that I learned more about Lady Rosslyn.

I often wondered whether I talked too much of this, but the relationship between Amy and myself was not the usual one between mistress and maid, perhaps because of our ages and the fact that I was no more used to this way of life than she was. In any case, it removed any barrier between us that there might have been.

Everyone knew, of course, of the nature of the relationship between the master and mistress of the house. For years they had lived what was referred to as "separate lives." In such a house it was conveniently possible for there to be two separate households, and it had been thus for many years.

"There is talk about it in the kitchens," said Amy. "It has all come up again because you and Master Luke have come here."

"What do they say about that?" I asked.

"That the mistress don't like it and that she knows ... even though she can't speak much, or if she does, it is only Mistress Galloway who knows what she is saying."

Amy was a little hesitant at first, wondering whether she ought to be talking to me thus, just as I asked myself whether, as my father's daughter, I should be having such conversations with a maid.

But, because we were both young and inexperienced in what should and should not be done, the conversations continued.

I was very eager to know about Lady Rosslyn. I felt she had played an important part in my life. It was simple enough to believe that her relations with her husband had led to my father's entanglement with my mother—and, of course, that concerned my very existence. Moreover, I wanted to know, and I did not care enough about the etiquette of behavior if it were going to bar my way to knowledge.

So I learned by degrees that there had always been this aloof relationship between my father and his wife. They each behaved as though the other did not exist, except on those occasions— traditional functions and so on—when they had to appear together. But that was in the past. There would be no more of those now.

For some years now Mistress Galloway had lived with Lady Rosslyn. She was a cousin. They had been brought up together and were like sisters.

It appeared that Mistress Galloway had become a widow and had been left in straitened circumstances. Lady Rosslyn had invited her to come and live at Rosslyn Manor with her, and this she had done. They were close as two peas in a pod, Amy told me, and always had been. Mistress Galloway made a goddess of Lady Rosslyn, thinking nothing but good of her, and she couldn't abide his lordship, because she blamed him for everything.

"For not having children?" I asked. "I thought that was the main trouble between them."

"Mistress Galloway believes that if he had been a good husband to my lady, it would have been different."

"Perhaps if she had been a good wife to him, he would have been," I defended him.

Amy said: "Mayhap neither of them were what they should be. And to get to this pass! And there his lordship was, leading the sort of life lords live in London ... following His Majesty the King, that is." She stopped and hunched her shoulders.

I smiled. "Everyone knows how it stands with the King," I said.

"Well," said Amy, "it seems to be the way of the world. But Mistress Galloway does not like it and she says it is wrong, and so it seems does my lady. But it is a terrible thing that has happened to her, and it is a blessing, they say in the kitchens, that she has Mistress Galloway to look after her. Her ladyship has been good to Mistress Galloway, for they say it would go hard with her if she had no place to go, and then, of course, she has little Francine with her."

"Who is little Francine?" I wanted to know.

"Oh, Mistress Kate, there is much you don't know about this place. But I suppose it's you just coming here, and you being on his side, and little Francine being on hers."

"I should like to hear about little Francine," I said.

"She's Mistress Galloway's granddaughter. She's not been here long. It was good of Lady Rosslyn to let her come, but then I suppose she would, being fond of Mistress Galloway, and a relation too. Little Francine would be connected with Lady Rosslyn. So it is natural, like. So there she is, up in Lady Rosslyn's part, with her grandmother, you see."

"And you say she came here recently?"

"I don't know quite when. Mistress Kate, being new-come myself. Her mother died, you see, and she was left an orphan. And her being what she is ..."

"What is she. Amy?"

"Strange little thing. Not quite natural. They say it was due to her being dropped when she was a little one."

"Dropped?"

"On her head. Some nursemaid, it was. She seemed all right at the time, but there is something about her ..." Amy frowned and looked into the distance, puzzled.

"What is it about her. Amy?"

"I can't rightly say. It is just that she is not quite like other folk, if you get my meaning."

"I don't really, Amy. In what way is she so different from other folk?"

"I cannot rightly say. It is just the way she looks at you and smiles to herself ... and the way she looks about her, as though she can see something you can't."

"Oh. It sounds rather uncomfortable."

"Yes," said Amy thoughtfully. "You might say that. She goes about quiet, like, and suddenly you find she's there, as though she's come from nowhere and is seeing something you can't see. It's creepy, like."

"I understand."

"Her grandmother thinks the world of her. I've seen them together ... it's the way she looks at her."

I said: "I'll watch for Francine."

I did not have long to wait.

I had been a week at Rosslyn Manor but I had not seen my father since my arrival. I gathered that he was often away and that he spent a great deal of time in London. I guessed there was no need for him to stay in the country. James was the most efficient of managers and it certainly suited him to have no interference from the master so that he could do everything his way. I had long guessed that and Christobel had confirmed it.

I believed my father was giving us a chance to settle in before he let us know what he had planned for us.

Every day I rode over to Christobel's house, so I was seeing almost as much of her as I had done in the past.

One day I came back to Rosslyn Manor and, having left my horse in the stables, I made my way up to my room. As I mounted the spiral staircase, I had formed a habit of glancing over my shoulder. I had a feeling that I was being watched, as I often had when I was in the house alone. It was the vastness of the place, that air of brooding antiquity, the constant reminder of a long-past age.

I went into my room and pulled up sharply. A young girl was sitting by the window.

I said: "Hello. Who are you?"

She looked at me with those strange eyes which Amy had spoken of, and I knew before she spoke that this was Francine, Mistress Galloway's granddaughter.

"She said: "Fm Francine. I was waiting for you."

"How do you do," I said. "Did you want to see me about anything in particular?"

"I wanted to see you. I've seen you before," she said with a slow smile.

"When I was asleep," I said. "In this room, was it?"

She gave me a strange look and lifted her shoulders in a mirthful gesture.

"You were not asleep, were you?"

"I did not awake until you had gone. Wasn't it a strange time to come visiting?"

"Oh, it was the best time really. I could see you without your seeing me."

"I should have thought that might be a disadvantage to me."

She made the same gesture.

"I am glad you decided to come this time when I am awake," I added.

"Do you like it here?"

"Of course."

"It's not your home, is it?"

"It is my father's house, so therefore it seems my place might be here."

"They don't think so."

"Who?"

She waved her hand vaguely.

What an odd creature. There was a hint of madness about her, and Amy was right. One felt this because there was something strange about her eyes.

"I know you live in your grandmother's apartments," I said.

She nodded.

"I like to be here," she said. "It frightens you."

"Does it?"

"Not you?" she asked.

"There is nothing to be afraid of, surely?" I said.

She looked at me with interest.

She said: "They don't want you to be here."

"Who?" I asked.

"Her, and my grandmother."

"Her?"

She nodded and pointed in the same direction she had before. I knew she was referring to Lady Rosslyn.

"No," she repeated, "they don't want you here, nor him."

I guessed the "him" referred to was Luke.

I thought: They would not tell her this. She must listen to their conversations. But then Lady Rosslyn could not speak. Her grandmother must talk to her. Perhaps she talked to Lady Rosslyn and the child listened. Lady Rosslyn could nod and so on, as often happened with people who had lost their voices.

In any case, this was a very strange child, and one to be wary of.

She went closer to the window, then turned and beckoned to me.

"Look out there."

She was pointing towards what looked like a pile of bricks just beyond the stables.

"It was a fire," she said. "Last year."

"Did you see it?"

She nodded. "The fire was making a roaring sound, as though it was angry ... and you could feel the heat from it. The sky was red. It was a real fire. Fire kills you if you're in it. Some people can't get out of it. They want to but they can't. There were red flames and yellow flames ... and it makes pictures, and you can watch them. They change and change. I saw it. You can smell it."

"So you saw this fire, did you?"

She nodded. "They left it all alone ... after that. It was part of the stables. They were leading the horses out and they were very frightened. It was the biggest fire in the world, and it was all burned out. All that had been there wasn't there any more. That is what happens when there is a fire. Then the fire goes out and what's left is just like bones left on your platter when you've eaten your meat."

"It must have been very frightening.".

She looked at me in astonishment.

"Frightening?" she said blankly. "It was the biggest, best fire in the world."

She rose suddenly and walked to the door.

"Goodbye," she said.

"Francine," I replied, "if you come to see me again, come when I am here, will you? Knock at the door and ask if you may come in. And please do not come at night when I am asleep."

She looked at me with that far-off, vacant smile, hunched her shoulders and went out.

A Question of Marriage

My father returned to Rosslyn Manor.

After some little time he sent for me. I went to the room which was called his small sitting room and he smiled at me and asked me to sit down.

"Well, you are accustomed to the place a little now," he said.

"Yes," I replied.

"And you are finding it comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you."

"A little more congenial than it appeared at first?"

"It is such a large house to become acquainted with when one is unaccustomed to such surroundings."

"Do I detect a hankering after the Dower House or Maggie's neat little place in London?"

"My friends were there."

"And here?" He shrugged his shoulders. "But grieve not. You are going to London, and of course there you will be able to visit the admirable Maggie."

"Oh, that is wonderful."

"You will not have a lot of time with her. I have plans for you. Kate, I am going to show you London, and London you. You will be presented as my daughter and Luke as my son. Why not? It is the truth, is it not? You will see a different way of life."

"I have always known that there are many different ways of life. I did see a little of that in the theater, for instance."

"You will see more with me. Now, you will need clothes, both you and Luke. Those we shall find in London itself. No seamstress here would be adequate to provide what you will need."

"How long shall we stay?" I asked.

"A month or so. It depends. Don't be afraid. I shall be there to guide you."

"Where do we live while we are there? In your lodgings?"

He shook his head. "My lodgings were just an apartment for convenience. I have a house there in Chelsea. It is a pleasant old place with a garden which runs down to the river. It is within easy distance of Whitehall."

"When do we leave?"

"The day after tomorrow. You don't need to bring much. You will acquire everything you need in London. Your maid will see to that."

"Amy? She will not have any idea."

He looked puzzled. He clearly did not know Amy.

"She looks after me here," I said.

He laughed. "No, no. A country girl would be no use. There will be someone at the London house. No need for you to fret about that. It will all be attended to by Mistress Baxter."

"Mistress Baxter? Who is she?"

"She is in charge of the household there. A very efficient woman. She will know what will be required. Tell me, does the prospect please you?"

"It is always exciting to experience something entirely new," I said.

He surprised me in a rare affectionate gesture, when he took my hand in his and kissed me on the brow.

"Kate," he said, "I'm glad you are mine."

When I told Christobel that I was going to London her eyes sparkled.

"So you are to venture into the wicked world outside Somerset. Your father is doing the right thing at last and acknowledging you and Luke. Well, one might say it is time he did. I dare say he has grand plans for you both."

"What do you mean about plans?"

"Plans for girls of your age usually mean one thing. Mayhap he has someone in view. Some country squire. Some knight or baron, perhaps. You could hardly expect a dukedom, but I don't see why it should not be a man with prospects who has not yet attained the height of his ambition. But with the help of my lord as his father-in-law ..."

"Oh, stop it. I shall refuse to marry any of them."

She looked at me a little wistfully.

"I wonder," she said. "Pressure may be great. Your father clearly has something in mind."

"You mean marriage. Well, in view of his own disastrous experience, I should have thought he would have been a little cautious on that matter."

"People always think their arrangements will succeed when those of others fail."

I did not wish to discuss the matter any further, and I told her about my encounter with Francine.

"So the strange little granddaughter turned out to be the nocturnal visitor," she was saying when Kirkwell came in.

"I was passing and saw your horse outside."

"Kate has news," said Christobel. "She is going to London."

"Oh, no," said Kirk under his breath.

"It is just for a visit ... a month or so, my father said."

Kirkwell looked very downcast. I knew what he was thinking. His thoughts would be similar to those of Christobel. My father's interest in me was aroused because I was growing up, and parents such as he was were very devoted to their families and always had in mind the thought of the upcoming generations. Although, as some had said, I was only a bastard offspring. I was still a member of the Rosslyn family, and to be considered.

I wanted to go to Kirkwell and comfort him. I remembered the occasion when he had told me—or at least hinted—that he loved me. I also remembered how anxious I had been when he had had to hide in the Devil's Tower.

I loved Kirkwell. I would always feel a tenderness for him, but I felt so inexperienced, and was not sure that the feeling I had for him was that on which to build the foundations of a good marriage.

Kirkwell's obvious unhappiness cast a gloom over the excitement which the prospect of a visit to London had inspired in me.

When I returned to the house I found Luke in a state of ecstasy.

"This is part of it," he said to me. "Our father is acknowledging us. You know what that means. He will introduce us into the right society. There will be a grand marriage for both of us. Oh, Kate, life is wonderful."

The London house was built in attractive red-brick Tudor style and the garden was a delight. The river lapped at its edge and I enjoyed watching the boats going up and down the river, which was invariably crowded with craft of all kinds—from the most elaborate to the very humble. It made me feel that London life was passing along before my eyes.

Mistress Baxter took charge of me, much as Mistress Longton had at the Dower House. She was a tall woman, with an air of immense authority, and she commanded the house as a general might an army. All the servants jumped to attention when she gave her orders. She was, as my father had said, extremely efficient, rather formidable, but I liked her.

She produced Marie, who was said to be half-French, and she was to be my maid. She would dress my hair as it should be dressed, advise me about my clothes, for Marie had what Mistress Baxter called "the touch." It was the French blood in her, and although the French might so often be our enemies on the field of battle and were noted for their cimning ways, in the boudoir they were unsurpassable.

During my first day there was a great bustle about seamstresses and the almost impossible task of turning a gauche young girl from the country into a young lady fit for the court. My hair made Marie sigh in desperation and she was convinced that only time and her own artistic hands could remedy the disaster.

I did manage to get along to Maggie on that first day, because I knew that she would have been hurt if she learned that I had failed to call on her immediately on arriving back in London.

I was received with the usual delight, and I could see that she was excited because, as she saw it, my father was going to "do the right thing" by me.

I told her about the London house, Mistress Baxter and Marie, and all the bustle of preparations which were apparently so necessary.

There were tears in her eyes as she said: "Your mother would have been so pleased. It was what she always wanted for you."

Then we talked of Christobel's marriage with pleasure.

"He seems such a good young man by all accounts, and a clever one too. She'll be happy, the dear girl. We got fond of her, did we not, in spite of the sly way she came here."

Maggie shook with laughter, remembering.

I could see that she was very pleased about everything. My father's interest in his daughter was what she had been hoping for all this time. And that which excited Christobel delighted Maggie, and that which made Kirkwell apprehensive was about to happen.

That London visit was significant.

My father gave a banquet at his Chelsea house, and many of the noblest in the land were invited, among them the Duke of Buckingham. There were others whose names I had heard from time to time, and there were still others to whom I might not have paid great attention at the time but remembered afterwards—Sir Algernon Sidney, Lord Russell and the Earl of Essex.

After the meal the guests sauntered into the garden. It was a pleasant June evening and I thought how beautiful it was, with the willows trailing into the water, and the music which floated out from the ballroom.

I had never seen Luke in such a mood. This was clearly sheer happiness to him: to mingle with people who before had been but names to him, and to be accepted as one of them, was the materialization of his dreams, I was sure. I was beginning to understand Luke well; and while it gave me great pleasure to see him so contented, I felt a twinge of fear for him.

I saw William, Lord Russell, talking to him very earnestly and later they were joined by Sir Algernon Sidney and when the Earl of Essex strolled by. Sir Algernon called to him, and for a while he chatted with them all.

As for me, my father had presented me to many of the guests as his daughter.

There was dancing in the ballroom, in which I was delighted to discover I could join. Christobel and I had practiced a few steps, but of course we were not skilled in the new ones which were being danced at court. I fell into them quite easily and, if I was a little clumsy at first, I was forgiven on account of my youth, or perhaps because I was the now-acknowledged daughter of an important man.

There was one young man. Sir Anthony Warham, who paid particular attention to me. He told me I was born to dance, and I felt very happy. However, my father was soon beside me and I sensed he did not like Sir Anthony. He told me afterwards that Sir Anthony was one of those young men of whom young ladies should be wary.

During that visit to London I was to be given a glimpse of court life. On one very important occasion for me my father took me to Whitehall.

What preparations there had been! Marie had been in a state of great excitement. No single hair must be out of place. I must stand very straight or the fall of my skirt would be imperfect. She taught me how to make the correct curtsey when presented to the King. I should have to watch every moment. She wrung her hands in despair several times and then allowed her spirits to be revived; she lapsed into French to remind me that she came from that country which was noted for its elegance, attention to formality and innate awareness of good taste.

She made me quite nervous of the whole affair, but when I was face to face with the King and those dark somber eyes regarded me, it was all so different from that which Marie had hinted at that I told myself that she was not as knowledgeable as she made herself out to be.

I made my curtsey and when he looked at me, I was immediately aware of that famous charm which completely disarmed me.

My father murmured: "My daughter. Your Majesty."

And he said: "Welcome to my court. It pleases us to see you here."

"Your Majesty is gracious," I said.

"It is you, dear young lady, who are gracious to come."

It was all over in a very short time, but I should never forget it. I was sure that no one else could be like him. He would have stood out among them all even if he were not the King, and this was not entirely due to his magnificent physique, though he seemed to tower above all the other men near him.

I saw him again later, when he was completely absorbed in two ladies who sat one on either side of him and who I learned were Louise de Kerouaille and the play actress Nell Gwynne.

I was a little bemused to see these people, who had previously been talked of so frequently that I had built up images of them in my mind.

Several men talked to me and paid fulsome compliments, which I did not take too seriously, for I had realized that this was the fashion of the day. My father was never far away and I sensed his watchfulness. I was delighted that he cared about me so much. It occurred to me then that I was beginning to be quite fond of him, although, having read my mother's own account of what he had done to her, I could not forgive him entirely and believed I never would.

It had been a wonderful time, and I returned to Rosslyn Manor feeling that, having had this glimpse of another world, a remote, fantastic world, I would never be quite the same again.

I was right. Life at Rosslyn Manor seemed very quiet after that visit to London.

Amy was delighted to see me back. She said there had been a lot of talk in the servants' hall about my going. She whispered in confidence that Mistress Galloway was not very pleased about it, for she thought it was an insult to her ladyship.

"But Lady Rosslyn is not aware of what is happening. I understood she could not speak."

"I don't know, Mistress Kate. What goes on in that part of the house is a big mystery. Lady Rosslyn is ill, but some say that she is not all that ill and there are times when she knows what is going on. It's just that she can't speak ... perhaps she can talk in signs, as some deaf people do. Well, all I can say is that I wouldn't like to be up there. It's a bit odd to me ... with Lady Rosslyn there, and that Francine."

"Oh, how is Francine?"

"She doesn't alter. She just goes round in her crazy way."

A few days later I had a visit from Francine.

This time she came to my room and knocked at the door. When I called "Come in," she came in, looking triumphant.

"It's what you said," she told me. "You said to knock."

"Hello, Francine," I said.

"You've been to London," she said.

"Yes, I saw the King."

She studied me with wide-eyed wonder.

I told her about it, the house, the gardens running down to the river, the boats which used the waterway, the carriages in the streets and the people going into the theaters.

She was fascinated by the theater and I told her about my mother and the days long ago when I used to listen to her saying her lines of the play in which she was to act.

Francine listened, her eyes losing that strange wild look.

I thought she seemed almost normal while she was so absorbed.

I wondered about her. She was living in that secluded part of this ancient house with her grandmother and an invalid. It was no life for a child, really.

She took to waylaying me and she obviously liked to listen to me talk.

Everyone was discussing the plot to kill the King.

I heard of it first when I rode over to see Christobel. James was rarely at home, as he was usually occupied with estate business, but he had heard the news and had mentioned it to Christobel.

"Let us thank God that it was foiled. Think of what would have happened if it had succeeded."

I was eager to know what it was all about and Christobel said: "Some traitors planned to kill the King and the Duke of York on their way home from the Newmarket races."

"How terrible!" I cried, thinking of those kindly, though worldly, eyes which had smiled at me in a moment I knew I should never forget. "Imagine if it had succeeded!"

"Well, if the Duke had been killed as well as the King, what then?" I asked Christobel.

"That was the idea. The throne would then have fallen by rights to the Duke's daughter Mary and, failing her, his second daughter Anne. But I am not sure that that was the idea in the minds of those who plotted this. The King certainly has the people's affection. They will demand someone's blood for this. Cold-blooded murder, that's what it would have been. There must have been several conspirators. The King had to pass along a stretch of road on his way to and from the races and there is a farm in a lonely spot which belongs to a maltster, they say. The farm is called Rye House. Everyone is talking about the Rye House Plot."

When I went back to Rosslyn Manor Luke was just coming in. He had been doing some business for James. Lately he had begun to busy himself considerably on the estate. It had worried me slightly.

"Have you had an interesting morning?" he asked.

"Well, I have been talking with Christobel about the plot."

"Plot?" he said. "What plot is this?"

"I believe nobody knows very much about it. It may be that it is only a rumor. You know how these things start. Apparently it was a plan to assassinate the King and the Duke of York near a farm called Rye House."

Luke had turned away slightly, but not before I saw the hot red color flood his neck.

When he turned to look at me his features were composed.

He said: "The what-house plot?"

"Rye," I said, looking at him in surprise, for I felt his voice was not quite natural.

I was silent for a moment and then told him what I had heard from Christobel. After a few moments he spoke, his voice sounding rather harsh as he said: "Is that all you know about it?"

"It was James who mentioned it to Christobel. He meets so many people and he had just heard that there had been this plot."

"Oh, it may well be just one of those stories which go round at times."

But this was not just one of the stories. It was proved to be true that a scheme had been planned.

It was the time of the Newmarket races, and everyone knew of the King's fondness for the sport. He invariably traveled to Newmarket at this time; it was his custom to go on the day the races started and to return to London when they were over; therefore it was certain that at some time during these days he would be passing along that road.

It was a lonely road and what could be simpler for someone who planned mischief than to lie in wait for His Majesty and the Duke, and as there would be no resistance—or very little—the conspirators could achieve their aim with ease.

It might have succeeded but for a rare chance.

A fire had broken out in the house in which the King and his brother usually stayed when in Newmarket, and for this reason they had decided not to wait for the conclusion of the races but to return to London a day early.

The King and the Duke returned safely to London and on the day they arrived a letter which had been sent from one conspirator to another was discovered and the whole plot exposed.

Luck was certainly on the King's side on this occasion.

I was very frightened at that time, for I had come to know Luke very well and I could see by his demeanor that he was greatly disturbed.

I began to be even more afraid when I discovered the names of some of the conspirators—and the chief of them—Lord Russell, Algernon Sidney and Lord Essex.

My mind went immediately back to that Chelsea garden running down to the river at my father's London residence. No. It could not have been. They hardly knew him. But they had noticed him, they had talked to him, and now he was obviously afraid.

I wanted to talk to him, to ask him what he knew of this plot, but I could not bring myself to do so, and I tried to tell myself that I was imagining something which did not exist.

And then I heard another name mentioned in connection with the plot: the Duke of Monmouth. That added to my anxiety. I had heard Luke speak of the Duke and I had seen the burning fervor in his eyes. The Duke of Monmouth was not only an ardent Protestant but he was also the King's natural son; Luke shared with him that burning ambition to be recognized, not as his father's bastard but as a legitimate son. Monmouth might crave a crown, but Luke's desire to possess Rosslyn Manor was just as fervent.

What had happened on the night of the banquet? How deeply had Luke become involved?

My thoughts went back to that terrible time when Oates's men were close at hand and we were afraid for Kirkwell. Kirkwell had been innocent. There was no case against him, but that would have carried little weight against the followers of Titus Oates. This could be different.

If Luke had been guilty of plotting against the King in order to set on the throne that man who had become a kind of symbol to him ... that would be considered treason, and treason was punishable by death.

By this time there was no topic of conversation other than the Rye House Plot.

The people, who loved their King and were very grateful to him for bringing merry England back to them after those years of Puritan rule, wanted the conspirators brought to justice.

The ringleaders were soon captured and were sent to the Tower.

Lord Russell seemed to be the chief of the conspirators. He was taken to Lincoln's Inn Fields and deprived of his head. Thousands were there to witness what they had decided was just punishment for a man who had plotted to kill the King.

Lord Essex, a man noted for his virtue and who could only have been persuaded to join such a conspiracy through his fear of a Catholic monarch coming to the throne, committed suicide by hanging himself in his cell in the Tower.

There was only one of those conspirators who escaped, and that was perhaps the one who hoped to profit most from its success. But the King was, after all, his father, and if, like my own father, he could not bring himself to legitimize his natural children, he could not suppress his affection.

The Duke of Monmouth, although it would seem that he had been as deeply involved as any, having more to gain—for the object of the plot was surely to set him on the throne—threw himself on the King's mercy and insisted that he had only listened to the plotters with the sole purpose of saving his father's life.

Did the King really believe that? I could imagine him shrugging his shoulders and telling himself that it was a good thing for a man to believe that which would give him the most comfort. So, with that cynical smile of his, he decided to give his son the benefit of the doubt ... if doubt there could be said to be.

Monmouth was excused. He could hardly be pardoned, as so many had lost their lives for their part. He could not appear at court. That would be asking too much of those who had lost a dear one who was certainly no more guilty of treason than the Duke. So Monmouth was banished. He went to the Continent, the natural resort of those forced to leave the country. And I guessed from that distance he continued to view the crown of England with renewed and earnest longing.

As for Luke, as the matter of the Rye House Plot slipped into memory, I noticed the intense relief which came to him.

I knew then that he had not been deeply involved in the plot, for his name had not been mentioned, but I did believe that he had been toying with the idea. Clearly he must have betrayed his feelings to those conspirators, and his championing of the Duke of Monmouth's claim must have aroused the interest of those men, but by great good fortune he had not quite committed himself so far as to have become implicated in the actual plot.

All the same, he continued to regard Rosslyn Manor with a yearning desire and I feared that that would persist throughout his life.

But perhaps he had learned the folly of such thoughts. Who knew? This experience, which might have brought him to disaster, might have taught him a lesson.

I was aware of the reverberations of the Rye House Plot all through that year. Indeed, it was not until December that Algernon Sidney lost his head.

I was very anxious about Luke. I knew him well enough to realize that he was deeply disturbed, even anxious. The sight of a stranger would have an effect on him which was not lost on me.

One day I burst out: "Luke, were you in any way concerned in the Rye House Plot?"

He looked at me in such a startled way that I guessed my suspicions had had some foundation.

"No ... no," he said.

"Look, Luke," I said. "You're my brother. I want to help if I can. I know something happened. I can see the change in you. You remember that time when our father took us to London. You remember the banquet and how we were all in the garden at Chelsea ... I saw you with those men ... Lord Russell, Algernon Sidney and the others."

He said nothing.

"Luke," I persisted, "I am very worried about you."

He drew a deep breath. "You need not be," he said. "I did not know that there was to be the Rye House Plot, only ..."

"Only?" I queried.

Again that silence.

Then he said: "Well ... I must have betrayed that I thought the crown should go to Monmouth."

I sighed.

He went on: "They did talk to me ... Lord Russell and Algernon. They overheard my defense of the Duke's right to the throne and they agreed with me that it was necessary to keep out Catholic James. The country would never endure his rule, which would mean turning back to the Pope. There would be trouble. The best course for the country to take would be to rid itself of James right away. Don't look so scared, Kate. They did not tell me of the plot. Do you think they would have told someone they had just met? No. We just talked, and they were sympathetic. They did say that they thought I might be very helpful to the cause ... when it came, and they would call me in then. That was all."

I sighed with relief.

"Do you swear it, Luke?"

"I swear it," he replied.

"So ... they plotted this. They were going to kill the King and the Duke of York and set up the Duke of Monmouth, and then they would remember you. They would call on you as one of their supporters."

"I think it must have been something like that."

"And you have been wondering, of course, whether someone might have mentioned your name and then you would be questioned ... even though you had no part in the plot. So that was the cause of your anxiety?"

"It is disturbing," he said, "when people one has known, however briefly, people one has talked to only a little while ago ...

and then one hears that they have been beheaded for treason."

"Oh, Luke," I said. "Do take care. We live in dangerous times."

Christobel was going to have a baby. She was blissfully happy. So was James. They at least were unconcerned about the Rye House Plot and its aftermath.

James fussed around her, not allowing her to carry anything or exert herself too much. Christobel reveled in it.

"I feel like a queen bee, with all my workers hovering around, and just think what it means—a baby! A child of my own. I cannot wait. I am so impatient. I am just longing for it. James wants a boy, of course. I do not care. I tell him, just to be obstinate, that I want a girl. Why do men always want boys? The egoistic male. They think their sex is superior in some way. I cannot think what gives them such an idea. I thought I had made James understand by now that that is not the case."

It was wonderful to see her so contented.

She was told she must take regular rests for the sake of the child, and she liked people to come and see her in the morning when she could lie on her sofa and receive her guests.

I would go over whenever possible and Sebastian, Kirkwell and Luke came often.

Luke was taking more and more of an interest in the estate and was often with James learning about it. I believe that somewhere within him was the belief that one day, in spite of everything, Rosslyn Manor would be his. I was getting quite fond of Sebastian. He was unlike any of the others. There was a certain nonchalance about him. He was a good-natured man, content with things as they were. Luke would say, why should he not be? Our father had decreed that Rosslyn Manor should be his one day. Sebastian's attitude to life was one of happy complacency. A distant connection of the family, he would one day be very wealthy and inherit the title as well as the estate, and this he took as it came, without it seemed any great excitement. He w^s relaxed. He was as courteous to a serving-maid as he would be to a lady of the court. He was extremely popular. In fact, we all liked him.

He was often at Christobel's gatherings. He had the time. He was only mildly interested in the estate and left everything to James, which suited James. How different from Luke, who was deeply concerned about every little item concerning the place.

Kirkwell would often come in to see his sister.

One morning they were all there—Kirk, Luke, James and Sebastian—and the talk was, as very often, of that topic which seemed on everyone's mind since the discovery of the Rye House Plot. Oh no, it had been there before that. In fact, it was a perennial concern and I supposed it would be until some solution was found.

They were discussing it now.

"The King is well at the moment," pointed out James. "But he is no longer young and he lives rather strenuously," he added with a smile.

"While he lives," put in Luke, "all is well. But what would happen if he were to die suddenly?"

"Then we should have James," said Sebastian.

"James!" cried Luke. "You know what that means. Back to the domination of Rome!"

"They might work something out," suggested Sebastian. "Surely that would not be difficult?"

"There are some people in the court," said Kirk, "who would fight to bring back the Pope, and that is no good. What we need is peace. We want a country untroubled by conflict."

"But the Duke of York is a Catholic," declared Luke.

"So be it," said Sebastian. "That does not make me one."

"It might be necessary to be one. Remember what they did with the Inquisition."

"We would not have that here."

"Remember Bloody Mary."

"Nor would we allow a repetition of that."

"It's all very well for you, Sebastian. You'd go this way or that, whatever comfort dictated."

"It is not a bad approach, dear boy."

"I know it is your way," remarked Luke, who was looking at Sebastian and smiling.

Kirk said: "Suppose that plot had succeeded. Then we should have had a Protestant King."

"Monmouth!" said James. "That ' was impossible, because ..." He did not finish.

"What difference does that make?" cried Luke angrily. "If the King and Duke of York had died and Monmouth had been set on the throne, the people would be rejoicing—"

There was a movement from behind.

Thomas Crabber, one of the men who worked on the estate, had come into the room.

He touched his forehead and fixed his eyes on James.

"Begging your pardons, ladies and gentlemen ... I had to see Mr. Morton. Tis trouble, sir, over at Brewer's place. Old Brewer's in a fair way. Says he wants to see you and won't take no for an answer."

"It's that flooding, is it, Thomas?"

"Likely, sir."

"I'll be over right away."

He turned and grinned at the company.

"Take care of yourself, my dear," he said to Christobel. "And as for the rest, you go on fighting the battle for the succession."

Occasionally I saw Margaret Galloway in the gardens. She contrived not to see me but if there was no escape she would answer my greeting rather unwillingly. I had never had a conversation with her. Once or twice I had seen her with Francine, who would give me a mischievous look as she passed with her grandmother.

I had never seen Mistress Galloway exchange a word with the housekeeper or any of the servants, so I was surprised one day to come upon her in what appeared to be close conversation with Thomas Crabber.

I had often seen Thomas Crabber about the estate. There was something in his manner which I did not like. There was a perpetual smile on his face, but it was by no means a pleasant one. His small eyes were closely set under bushy brows and his was a face which made me feel rather uneasy. That was why I had been a little disturbed that he had come into the room when Luke had been talking rather rashly about his preference for the Duke of Monmouth as the future King. It was a reckless remark at the best of times, but in view of the present situation very dangerous.

Francine sought me out frequently and then there would be periods when she seemed to forget all about me, though I never knew why, for when she returned she talked to me as though there had been no change in our relationship. It was just a part of her generally erratic behavior.

It really did seem that the atmosphere had changed with the Rye House Plot.

I was in the garden one day when Francine came up to me.

She said: "Hallo, Mistress Kate."

I returned her greeting.

She said: "Mistress Morton is going to have a baby soon."

"Oh, it is not for some time yet."

"They were talking about it. Someone might put the evil eye on her. Then her baby might be a little frog or a goblin."

"Whoever said such a thing? That is absolute nonsense. Mistress Morton will have a lovely little boy or girl."

"How do you know?"

"I feel sure of it. So please do not let me hear you say such things again."

"My grandmother says that Mistress Morton will not be a good mother. She is too flighty. That is why she will only get a frog."

"I do not believe your grandmother said any such thing."

"She said she was flighty and hand-in-glove with you ... and that other."

"Who is that other?"

"Your brother ... who shouldn't be here. Nor should you."

"Why not?"

"It's something about a blanket. You got on the wrong side of it, did you not?"

"Your grandmother said this? To whom did she say it?"

"To her."

I began to understand. Lady Rosslyn resented us. I knew that already. I could imagine what Margaret Galloway said of us to Lady Rosslyn. Did she still do so? And what of Lady Rosslyn ... lying in her bed, unable to move some parts of her body, her speech affected?

It was a sad image. Poor woman lying thus, and still resentful that her husband was bringing other people's children into their house, reproaching her because she had not brought him his longed-for heir.

And they must talk in the presence of Francine, though I could imagine the child listening at doors, hearing the conversations, most likely misconstruing what was said. It was not a pleasant picture.

"She hates you ... and him," Francine said. "She's going to ..." She hesitated and then said: "Going to destroy him."

"Who?"

"Your brother. You too."

"Who said this?"

"They did."

"Your grandmother and Lady Rosslyn?"

"My grandmother. Her ... she just grunts ... but that means yes. They hate him because he's here. They're afraid ... well, it's going to be the other ... not him. Though he thinks it might be him."

"It's all so muddled," I said, "I don't know what you are talking about."

She shook her head. "It's not. She's going to tell someone ... about your brother. What he said. Then they'll come here. Some of them had their heads cut off. She said he should too."

I was beginning to understand. Thomas Crabber had noted what Luke had said. He had talked. It had come to Mistress Galloway's ears and she was Luke's enemy ... and mine.

I felt sick with anxiety and concern. I could never forget the days when Titus Oates's men were here and how we had feared for Kirkwell. I remembered those trips to the Devil's Tower. We had lived in dangerous times then, and still did.

And now Luke and I had our own enemies ... here in Rosslyn Manor. I had always known they resented us, but I had never thought that they could be very dangerous enemies. And in times such as these, Luke could be most unsafe.

I had to tell him. I had to make him see that he must always act with the utmost care.

Francine was looking at me steadily. She sensed the alarm her admissions had aroused in me. For a moment I saw a certain softness come into her eyes.

She said, and there was sincerity in her voice: "I like you, Mistress Kate."

"Thank you, Francine." I was gratified, but very much afraid.

I did speak to Luke. I told him what Francine had said.

"Those two old women," he said. "One in her dotage and the other a wreck! How could they harm me?"

"They can talk. You see how it has come back to me, through Francine."

"That crazy child!"

"She is strange, I grant you, but they must have been talking of you. I have seen Margaret Galloway in conversation with Tom Crabber. There is a man I do not like. And you were talking very rashly when he overheard you."

Luke was thoughtful. He realized the truth of that. I said: "Think of those men. They were our father's guests. There they were, laughing, talking, being merry with us all, and now . , . what are they? Rotting corpses, their heads doubtless on London Bridge, a warning to all men. Luke, please take that warning."

"My dear sister, I love you dearly, and I believe you are very fond of me, but ..."

"You are my brother. Let us not forget that. Promise me that you will heed this warning. We have enemies, Luke, here in this house. Those two women in that part of the house which they have made their own. Imagine them ... resentful ... unhappy. Blaming fate. What can it be like? Their only pleasure is in planning revenge on us."

"You take too much notice of that crazy child."

"I think I am rather grateful for the warning of that crazy child. I think we should remember the times we live in. They are dangerous indeed."

The new year would soon be with us. Christobel's baby was due in July, a month after my eighteenth birthday.

My father had not suggested that Luke and I should accompany him to London after that first visit, although he himself went frequently.

I was happy enough, although Luke would have liked to go.

Occasionally Sebastian went with my father. He was known everywhere, of course, as the heir of Rosslyn Manor. I wondered that he had not married by this time, but perhaps he was too lazy to bestir himself. He seemed very content with life as it was.

Kirk well was working very hard and, Christobel told me, with good results. James, who knew of such matters, said that Featherston had taken a new lease on life and was becoming as it had been in its most prosperous days. Kirkwell had worked wonders and many of the neighboring squires had said they found it hard to believe. James declared he had not. He had known from the start that Kirkwell's hard work would show results.

I often called at Featherston and when she was feeling well enough Christobel accompanied me, but on this occasion I went alone.

I found Kirkwell in his office, where he spent a great deal of time. He now had several men working for him, which meant that he had more free time to spare.

His face brightened when he saw me. It was always a pleasure to see, for he showed so clearly how delighted he was to see me.

"Come along in, Kate," he said. "For so long I have wanted to talk to you alone. It is not always easy to find you alone, and when I do ... I wonder ... if it is time. But I can wait no longer. You know I love you, that I always have. We've seen how happy Christobel and James are. Well, I want that happiness for us. Kate, I want you to marry me."

I was not really taken aback, but I seemed so. I knew that he loved me. He had told me so a long time ago and it had always been clear to me. And I loved him. But for some reason I was dismayed. I did not want to change anything yet. It was foolish of me, I suppose. It was not that I did not love him. I did. It was just that I did not want change.

He was looking startled. He said: "Why, Kate ... I thought you cared for me."

"I do. Kirk, I really do. It is just that ..." I stopped, for I could not explain.

"You are not ... surprised?"

"Well, not exactly. But I felt that : .. well, that is for later."

"You will soon be eighteen, Kate, not a child any longer."

"I know. But things have happened suddenly ... coming here ... the change of it all. And then all this trouble about the Plot and all that."

"That is not our concern, Kate."

"But it is the concern of us all."

"It makes no difference to our loving each other."

"I think that perhaps I am not ready yet, Kirk. I hadn't expected it yet. I think perhaps in a few months' time ..."

He looked faintly relieved and I clung to this idea. I could not bear to see him look hurt. Surely that was a sign that I loved him?

"Yes," I said. "That is it. I just want time."

"But I thought you knew ..."

"I did, and I love you, Kirk. I'm sure of that. It is just ... Could we leave it for a little, just a little while? I just feel ... not ready."

"Well, if that is what you wish."

"I wish I could make you understand."

"I think I do."

"Oh, Kirk, Kirk. Please do. It will be all right in the end, I'm sure. It's just that for the time being I just want things to go on as they are. Only for a little while. I want to think about it all."

"This place is going to grow prosperous, Kate. You won't be ashamed of it."

"Oh, Kirk, as if I should. As if it were important. If you had a little cottage it would make no difference."

"I wanted to make sure that I could get things right here before I asked you."

"That is of no moment."

"It is of the utmost importance."

"No, Kirk ... Oh, Kirk, I do love you. I was thinking of that terrible time when you hid in the Devil's Tower. Do you remember? If you could know how I felt when I used to make my way there."

"I never forget that time."

"I shiver now at the thought."

"Your coming to me like that was wonderful."

"They all came, did they not? Christobel, James, Luke, all of them."

"And you came too. That was the best time. I remember your little face so anxious, and I was almost glad to be there because of that. I thought you must love me. But now ..."

"Of course I love you. It is just that I want to wait. Say on my eighteenth birthday. It is not long now, as you say. Suppose we announce it then."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes ... I think I do."

It must be, I told myself, because I was thinking of him now as he had been in the Devil's Tower and of my anguish at the time because I feared that he was in danger.

I had ridden over to Christobel. I did not tell her that her brother had proposed marriage to me. She would have been delighted, I knew, but I should never have been able to explain to her my feelings. She would have laughed them to scorn. But how can we explain our innermost thoughts? Well, more than thoughts, really: it was a kind of instinct, something which said no, no, wait.

When I returned to Rosslyn Manor, I left my horse in the stables and was walking into the house when I met my father.

"Is all well?" he said.

"Thank you, yes," I replied.

"I thought you looked a little ... distrait."

"Oh, did you?"

"You have something on your mind, have you not?"

I hesitated too long, and he said: "So, you have."

As we crossed the hall, he took my arm and drew me into that little room which he used as his study.

"You shall tell me all about it," he said.

I was nonplussed. He was the last person to whom I could have explained my innermost thoughts. I was quite fond of him, but we were scarcely close.

He looked at me steadily, and then said: "Come ... tell me."

I found myself saying: "I have had a proposal of marriage."

The change in his expression surprised me.

He said sharply: "Who?"

I said: "Kirk ... Kirkweil Carew. We have known each other a long time and have always been good friends."

His face darkened, and he cut me short.

"You declined, I hope?"

"Well, no ..."

"What?"

I said: "No ... not exactly."

"Not exactly. And what does not exactly mean?"

"I have not said yes ... yet."

"That would save some trouble."

"I don't understand."

"I have already decided on your husband."

I stared at him in astonishment.

"I was going to tell you very soon. Are we not approaching your eighteenth birthday?"

"Yes, but ..."

"Now listen to me. I am very fond of you, Kate. In fact, I did not believe I could be so fond. I like your spirit, your outlook on life. You are a complete Rosslyn."

"Maggie says I am just like my mother."

"That may be. But you are a Rosslyn too, and that is what I like. Now listen. These are my plans. If you married Sebastian, this would be your home. My daughter would inherit Rosslyn Manor. You see what I mean? All this would not have to go outside the direct line. Oh, Sebastian also has Rosslyn blood, but it is a very distant connection."

I was hardly taking this in. Marry Sebastian! I could not believe I was hearing correctly.

"It would be quite in order. You are both of the family, of course, but the relationship between you is not close enough to give any cause for concern on that score. You are only remotely connected. As a matter of fact, first cousins have married in the family before now. My dear child, this has become the greatest wish of my life. If I could see you and Sebastian married, it would not matter so much that I had no son to follow me."

"But Sebastian!" I said. "I had never thought of marrying Sebastian."

"Of course you had not, but the idea has been brewing in my mind since we went to London. It came to me suddenly then.

when I saw you in that setting. You were charming ... so adaptable, so right in every way. Then I was afraid that you would become involved in some adventure with someone there. So I brought you back. You were very young then. And I have been waiting for the time to come ..."

Even then I was too overcome by surprise to say much. I thought of Sebastian—charming, nonchalant Sebastian, who shrugged his shoulders at fate and accepted what came with that mild tolerance which in some way endeared him to one. I had often watched him while the others were fiercely expressing their views, but he sat back, smiling, unruffled.

"Well?" said my father.

"Have you ... told Sebastian of your wishes?"

"He knows."

"And what does he say?"

"He is happy with the arrangement."

That told me nothing. Sebastian would accept any proposition with equanimity. Marry Kate? he would muse. Well, it would be a solution for Lord Rosslyn, who was so eager to see one of his offspring mistress, if not master, of Rosslyn Manor. He was quite fond of Kate in his easygoing way. He would marry some day, he would suppose, so why not Kate? In any case, it was a necessity to please his benefactor, for Lord Rosslyn could as easily decide after all not to make him his heir. There were probably other remote connections of the family who would serve his purpose ... I could imagine Sebastian's reaction.

"The wedding could be on your eighteenth birthday," my father went on. "That would be rather a charming gesture. What do you say?"

"I have just told you how I feel about Kirkwell Carew."

"Oh, no, that is just a young girl's passing fancy. They have them now and then."

"I have known him for some little time. So it is hardly passing."

"At one time," said my father, "I thought it would be a fair enough match. There are now possibilities at Featherston Manor. James thinks so and he also thinks Kirkwell is the one to set it in good order. It's true that at one time I thought that he would be a fair match for you."

"Which was why you helped us hide him in the Devil's Tower."

He nodded reminiscently. "This will be a wonderful arrangement. Kate, it is what I want more than anything. If I could see your children playing in these gardens, I think I could die happy."

"Please ... please, do not talk like that."

"It's a shock to you, is it, Kate?"

"I can't really believe it."

"Why not? It's the most logical outcome imaginable. Why should you two not marry? Your children—my grandson—would inherit the place."

"When you married," I said, "you thought your sons would inherit the place. There were no sons. You have had an unhappy marriage as a result."

"That was unfortunate."

"It is not rare. There must be many barren marriages. What if this one you are proposing were too?"

"I cannot believe it would be."

"Nor could you believe yours would be."

"I was forced into marriage ..."

"And is that what you would do to me?"

"Oh, come, I know you and Sebastian are the best of friends."

"We are good friends, but ..."

"You are thinking of Kirkwell Carew."

"Yes, and that I had never thought of Sebastian as a husband, nor do I suppose he thought of me as a wife until it was suggested to him."

"I have surprised you," he said. "I have not chosen the right moment. It should have come gently."

"It is not that ... though I must say it is a surprise ... and a shock."

"You could not have cared so much for Kirkwell or there would not be all this talk of waiting."

I considered that. He noticed and a triumphant smile crossed his face.

"You are really very young as yet, Kate. Look ... do not say I will not do this or I will do that. We'll agree to wait a little. To give you time to consider. You are right not to become involved too deeply at the moment. You see, you were aware of that. You had not thought of Sebastian in the light of a husband. But let me tell you, he will be one of the best. He is good-natured, kindly, affectionate and tolerant, and that last is a very good quality in a husband. You may not be passionately in love with him, but you are fond of him. He will always be your good friend and that is also a wonderful quality in a husband. See here, Kate, do not be rash. Remember how you have dealt with Kirkweil. You were unsure about him. You are unsure about Sebastian too. Leave it for a while. Just think of Sebastian. Think of being mistress of Rosslyn Manor, which will be rather different from Featherston Manor. Oh, I know you will thrust all that aside. You will not marry for position, but for love. Very charming and romantic— and pleasant too, I will admit—but think of it, Kate. This house, with years of history behind it. Your children will be heirs to Rosslyn. Kate, think of it. And think too of the pleasure you will give to a wear\' old man because his dearest wish is granted." ^

"I did not think you regarded yourself as a wear>' old man," I said.

He laughed and said: "Kate, please ... because it means so much to me, will you think about it? Let us wait."

I could only say that I would.

Rebellion

I COULD NOT FEEL the same towards Sebastian after that. I found myself watching him, thinking of him as my husband, spending my life with him. And not far away would be Kirkwell, whom I had half promised to marry instead.

Of course I could not marry Sebastian. Of course it must be Kirkwell—serious Kirkwell, who had worked so hard to restore his family home, who cared deeply about the future of the country, who loved me with a devotion which had begun soon after our first meeting and would last throughout our lives.

But on the other hand there was Sebastian, who was a kindly, even-tempered, calm and contented man, seeking a comfortable life and letting all discomforts flow past him, because he refused to notice them. I liked him very much, and I often wondered whether, but for Kirkwell, I might have become accustomed to the idea of marrying him.

He seemed to be more often in my company and I thought that it was because my father had told him of his wishes. The role of Lord Rosslyn of Rosslyn Manor would suit Sebastian well. He did not often refer to his home before he came to Rosslyn Manor, but I imagined it was in some decaying mansion whose upkeep caused concern to his impoverished father. Then came this golden opportunity, to go to Rosslyn Manor as heir because of this distant family connection to the powerful Lord Rosslyn, who was childless apart from those he had acquired outside matrimony. Of course Sebastian seized what was offered with alacrity: it was just the sort of life to appeal to him. And now, to please his benefactor, he was to marry a girl who was not too distasteful to him and whom he liked well enough. It would be an ideal arrangement, especially when the much-desired offspring appeared and the satisfied benefactor could look through his window and say: It has worked, just as I planned.

Oh, yes, Sebastian would be very ready to go along with that.

Christmas had come and we were in the New Year. It was cold and blustery.

Life still seemed a little unreal to me. My father watched me closely and I was always afraid that he was going to tell me his patience was running out and that he wanted to announce my engagement to Sebastian without any more delay.

Sebastian said nothing to me of marriage. I believed that my father had told him to wait.

When I saw Kirkwell I felt uneasy. He noticed and thought my mood was due to the fact that I was unsure.

He was not very happy, I knew, and I was desperately sorry about that. But I felt bewildered by my father's revelation of his plans, and I could not bring myself to discuss the whole matter with anyone, not even Christobel.

I went for short rides alone. I missed riding with Christobel. The baby was not due for a long time yet, but she was taking extreme care.

One day, returning to the stables after my ride, I met Luke. He told me he had been with James. He was very absorbed in something on the estate. James was explaining it all to him.

Poor Luke, with his dreams of one day inheriting the estate. I wondered what he would say if he knew of my father's plans for Sebastian and me. That would surely be a death knell to all his hopes.

Was Luke doomed to be disappointed all his life? And my poor father, I feared he would be disappointed too.

What wild plans these ambitious men could make. How could Luke believe that he would ever inherit Rosslyn Manor? How could my father believe I would ever marry Sebastian when I was almost certain that my husband would be Kirkwell? Of course, my father might well give Luke a small estate of his own. Sebastian would marry and perhaps my father would see his children playing in the gardens, but they would not be as close to him as he had wanted. But it would not be Rosslyn Manor for Luke, and it would not be my father's grandchildren there either.

It was dusk, which came early on these wintry afternoons, and as we approached Rosslyn Manor I saw a faint red glow in the sky. And then I detected a whiff of burning ... and I saw smoke coming from one of the windows in the tower.

"It's a fire!" I cried.

Luke murmured: "God in Heaven preserve us, so it is."

Then we were running towards the house with all speed.

The fire was in that part of the house which I had never visited. Lady Rosslyn's apartments.

"Give the alarm at once," cried Luke, and ran on ahead of me.

It seemed that the fire had already been detected, for several of the servants were assembled in passages, shouting to each other. They were carrying buckets of water which would surely not be very effective if the fire had got a hold as, from what we had seen outside, it seemed it had.

Luke had gone on ahead. This part of the Manor was very like that which I inhabited, built to the same pattern, so it was not as strange to me as it might have been.

I pushed my way forward. Then I saw Margaret Galloway. She was crying wildly.

"My lady ... she is in there. I cannot lift her ... I cannot get her out. She cannot move."

A door was open and, looking into the room, I saw a curtain of flames.

"She is in her bed ... I cannot move her," sobbed Margaret.

It was unbelievably hot and I found breathing difficult.

Several of the men were trying to beat out the flames and there were others throwing water over them. Some were carrying tubs of water up to the room.

Then I saw Luke. His face was blackened, his hair singed, but in his arms he was carrying someone.

Margaret Galloway cried: "Oh, praise the Lord. He has brought her out."

Luke was a hero. He had acted with selfless bravery. Lady Rosslyn had been in her bed, unable to move. Her bedcurtains were aflame. A few more moments and she would have been past helping. But Luke had reached her in time. He had rushed into the room and through the burning curtains with such speed that he had emerged with Lady Rosslyn in his arms with only singed hair and a few burns on his hands.

I thought afterwards how ironical it was that the one person whose presence in the manor house she had so resented had saved her life.

Both she and Luke had suffered minor burns. Luke's hair and eyebrows were singed. He looked unlike himself and his hands were painful. However, there were several of the servants with worse burns. One of the women on the estate was very skillful with lotions and unguents and was able to give immediate attention to those who had been burned, which saved them from being as bad as they might have been.

The fire was quickly put out. It was not the first fire the house had suffered during the centuries and the thick stone walls were almost impervious even to fire. This one had been confined to Lady Rosslyn's quarters and would certainly have been fatal to her had not Luke been able to bring her out.

No one knew how the fire had been started. Candles would have been lighted. There was a blustering wind outside. Perhaps a draught from an open door had sent a curtain fluttering into the candle flame. Who could say?

It was about a week or so after the fire, when I came back from one of my rides over to Christobel, that I saw Margaret Galloway. I had the feeling that she had been waiting for me.

She seemed rather embarrassed, and she said quickly: "Lady Rosslyn is better today. It was a terrible experience for her. Imagine her ... lying there ... helpless, with the fire all around her."

"Poor lady. It must have been horrifying."

"She would like you and your brother to come to see her, if you will. She wants you to know how grateful she is."

I felt a glow of pleasure. I knew she had resented us bitterly and I could understand it. This was quite a change of attitude. Understandable, of course. One cannot go on hating someone who has saved one's life.

I said we should be glad to go and see Lady Rosslyn.

"It was a terrible shock for her," said Margaret Galloway. "It was not until it was burning fiercely that I knew what was happening. It was too late to stop it."

"Everyone seems to have acted promptly and so saved a real disaster."

"But our apartments are unusable. We have other ones now. The maid will show you if you and your brother will come."

I said: "Francine was all right, was she?"

Margaret said: "Oh yes."

"It must have been alarming for her."

"Was it not for us all? Her ladyship is usually at her best in the afternoons."

"When my brother comes in, I will tell him."

And so Luke and I went to Lady Rosslyn's apartment.

She was in her bed, propped up with pillows.

She looked at us appealingly. Luke went to her and took the hand which she held towards us. He kissed it gallantly and she smiled, and her Ups moved.

Margaret, who was standing by the bed, said: "She is saying Thank you.' She is telling you she is grateful to you for saving her life."

"I am so pleased to have been able to do so," said Luke.

"She wants you to know that she is sorry ..."

Luke said: "There is no need to be."

"She thinks that she may have offended you."

"I fear that I may have offended her.''

"She wants to say that it was just that she was wrong to blame you, and your noble action has made her ashamed."

"Please," said Luke. "All that must be forgotten. That is how I feel and I know my sister does too."

"Yes, yes," I said.

Her lips lifted at one side and she nodded. She could hear what was said, Margaret Galloway told us, although she could not reply.

"I trust," said Luke, "that you have recovered from the shock?"

She nodded again. Her face, slightly distorted, yet had a softness which I was sure had not been there before when she had contemplated us.

I was deeply touched and thought what an extraordinary turn of fate it was that Luke, whom she had so bitterly resented—

even more than she did me, a mere girl—should have been the one to save her life.

However, I felt happier at Rosslyn Manor than I had for a long time and I knew it was the same with Luke.

It was February, cold and bleak, when the news came.

The King had had a seizure and a few days after it he had died.

That which we had all feared had come upon us.

We waited for what would happen. For so long we had anticipated this and now it had come it was something of an anticlimax. We had a new King, James, who, it had often been said, would never be accepted since the English could never allow a Catholic to occupy the throne again.

My father left for London and we had to rely on news from travelers arriving or when someone had heard something from someone else. It was mostly hearsay. It seemed that the fears we had had were unfounded, and although there was grieving for a much-loved King, his brother was accepted as the true heir to the throne in the usual manner. Wine was distributed in the streets, that the people might drink the health of King James, and the King had made a speech to the Council assuring them that he would follow his brother's example, especially in his clemency and—what was most significant—support the government in Church and State as by law established.

When they heard of this speech, the people's fears were slightly allayed.

Alas, James could not, it appeared, keep to this promise, and, a few days after his accession, he heard Mass openly in the Queen's Chapel.

We waited in trepidation, but this seemed to pass over and there were no more rumors of his misdemeanors.

My father came back from London and I expected him to mention the fact that my eighteenth birthday was not far away, and to remind me of his wishes concerning Sebastian.

However, he did not. I think he was really concerned about the political situation. The trouble with these internal conflicts was that it involved people taking sides, and who was to know which side was going to be the winning one. The Civil War between the King and Parliament was too recent for anyone to contemplate such a conflict without some misgivings.

I was glad that the matter of Sebastian was not raised again.

I had been thinking quite a lot about him and seemed to find myself more frequently in his company. I reminded myself often that he would be seeing me in much the same way as I saw him— assessing me, thinking of me as a possible wife. Yet he gave no sign of this. He was just as calm and friendly as he had ever been.

There were great discussions when we all met, usually in Christobel's house because she liked to be with us and was growing a little unwieldy now.

I could not help being rather glad of the state of affairs and the anxiety which had made my matrimonial plans seem temporarily of secondary importance.

When the King and Queen were crowned according to the Protestant ritual, it was thought that James intended to accept the authorized religion of the country for the sake of a crown, and that he had abandoned his attempt to introduce Catholicism again.

It was early in June, my eighteenth birthday was approaching, and I was sure that my father was contemplating bringing up the subject of my marriage. However, at this point, news came which made everything else sink into insignificance.

The Duke of Monmouth had come out of exile. He had landed at Lyme in Dorsetshire, not very far from our home. He had brought with him only one hundred and fifty followers and arms for five thousand more. He immediately published a declaration against the King, charging him with attempting to introduce Popery to England and saying that he, Monmouth, had come to claim the throne and set a Protestant King upon it—himself.

Christobel was stretched out on her sofa while we all gathered in her sitting room. In a month's time her baby was due.

We were all talking about the arrival of the Duke of Monmouth in England. It could only mean a rebellion, and that must have its effect on us all.

Luke's eyes were gleaming.

"The King should have made him his heir. Then this would not have happened."

"He could scarcely do that when the King's heir was here waiting," said Kirk well.

"Monmouth could have been the heir," insisted Luke.

"Ah, but he was not, though," said Sebastian.

"Charles had seen this coming. He might have married Monmouth's mother and settled the Monmouth claim, if he wished," said James.

"It might have been that they were married," said Luke. "There was talk of proof."

"You mean the little black box with the marriage certificate in it? Oh, you can't believe that. Lucy Walter, Queen of England. Come, Luke, be realistic."

Luke said: "I hope he succeeds."

"Treason," said Sebastian flippantly.

"This is a serious matter," cried Luke hotly.

Kirk said that he agreed. "It is a very serious matter. But I cannot believe the King married Lucy Walter."

"He was an exile at that time," insisted Luke. "He had no throne then."

"It's fortunate that he did not marry all the ladies in his life," said Sebastian, "or we should have too many to choose from now."

James said that, whatever there was to be said for a Protestant Monmouth against a Catholic James, James was his brother's legitimate heir and that was the law and that was how it stood with him, and any attempt to dethrone him was treason.

"But it is easy to see the way everything is going," said Kirk. "You can depend upon it. James will attempt to lead the country into the Catholic Faith. He will try to return us to Rome, and I do believe that that is something the English will never allow to happen."

"But he is the King, whatever his religion," said James.

"That is no reason why he should take this country where it does not wish to go," argued Kirkwell. "The will of the people is all-important."

Christobel sighed and said: "It is a pity it has to affect us when all we want to do is live in peace."

" Tis indeed a pity," replied her husband. "But there it is, my love. What should we do? Depend upon it, the people of this country will attempt to be rid of James if he tries to enforce his religion on us."

"Perhaps he will realize that," I suggested.

"If he did," said Kirk soberly, "he would not proclaim so openly his Catholicism in a country he hopes to rule."

"Perhaps he thinks it would be dishonest not to admit it."

"He has flaunted it. To go to Mass in the Queen's Chapel where anyone can see him. It is clear what will happen. There will be trouble. Tis better to be rid of it now before it gets greater."

"And you think to do that by supporting Monmouth?" I asked.

There was some hesitation. Kirk frowned and said: "We cannot have another such war as we did when the Parliament decided to rid the country of the King's father. Wars do no good to anyone."

"Then why have them?" asked Christobel.

"That's not an easy question to answer. Sometimes they are resorted to in order to prevent something worse."

"And now you think ... ?"

"Monmouth for King," mused Kirk. "That is not ideal. He was a wild young man ... but sometimes wild young men become wise ones. We have the true heir to the throne who threatens to turn an inherently Protestant nation into a Catholic one, which is certain to provoke bloodshed; and on the other hand we have an ambitious young man, who has not proved he has the necessary qualities for government, but who is a Protestant. He is young. He can learn. King James never would."

"What a pity," said Christobel lightly, "that the management of these things cannot be arranged around this table. I am sure you could solve the country's problems far more efficiently than those in whose hands they lie."

Sebastian said: "I'll swear that, wherever the news of Monmouth's arrival in England has been received, men and women will be sitting round tables such as this and discussing this very subject and all of them will think they are as wise as we are."

One of the workers on the estate came hurrying in. It was Tom Ricks, whom I knew slightly.

"Begging your pardon, sir," he said, looking at James. "But Ijthought you'd be wanting to know right away, like. It's news from London. Gentleman just come in from Bridgwater. He says Lord Monmouth has taken Taunton. He has five thousand men now, rising to seven thousand. He's come into Bridgwater and they've crowned him King."

Luke had risen, his eyes gleaming.

"It has come. I knew it would. Down with the Papists! Long live King Monmouth! I am going to join Monmouth's army. I shall leave today for Bridgwater."

"I'll be with 'ee," said Tom Ricks, and as he went out a silence fell on us all.

"So," said James at length, "it has come to this. This means ... fighting."

"He is already proclaimed King," insisted Luke.

"That does not make him so," replied James quietly.

"We are going to make him so," said Luke earnestly. "It is wonderful. He has just arrived and already is called the King."

"Bridgwater is not the world," said James.

"We are going to make the whole of England follow Bridgwater."

"Luke, don't be too hasty. Have you thought of what this means?" James asked Luke.

"I am certain it is what I wish to do. While King James is on the throne there will be conflict throughout the country. Once we have a good Protestant King the people will settle down. They will no longer be afraid of Catholic customs. They will be happy and we shall all live our lives in peace. I shall go to Bridgwater at once. The new King will need all the men he can get."

Kirk was staring ahead of him, with a very serious expression on his face.

He said: "I am not sure of the Duke of Monmouth. He was very wild in his youth. Do you remember Sir John Coventry, whose nose he and his friends slit, and how they murdered the beadle who tried to keep order?"

"That was his wild youth," said Luke. "He is different now that he will have the responsibility of the crown."

"He has not acquired it yet," Sebastian pointed out. "A cheer and a hurrah in a little country town is not a loyal reception in London. Forget not, the King has a strong army at his command with men like John Churchill leading it. Unless they have rebelled against the crown, they will be for the King, and how do you think Monmouth and his little band will stand up to James's trained men?"

"Bridgwater calls him King," said Luke.

"Bridgwater, dear fellow, is a very small place in a very small county. Do not set too much store by Bridgwater."

"The question is, which is the right cause to join?" said Kirk-well. "Is it a choice between two evils? On the one hand there is a Protestant country cursed with a Catholic King: on the other a Protestant King as yet unfitted to rule. It is not a very good proposition."

"Do you think James is fit to rule?" demanded Luke.

"Alas, no. But I think England, being England, would be better with the Protestant. When are you leaving, Luke?"

"Tomorrow morning at dawn."

"I shall come with you," said Kirk.

It is known through the depth and breadth of the land what happened in the next few days, how the proud young Duke was humbled, how his arrogant belief in himself was not supported by his deeds. How he reveled in those few days of his glory and how quickly that glory melted away.

We were deeply concerned. We were very close to the fighting and the field on which in due course the fatal battle was fought.

Our arrogant, foolish Monmouth was like a boy with ambitions which he could not hope to fulfill. James had done some foolish things, but he was wiser than his would-be rival. He was a mature man; he was the hero of several naval battles: he had the Earl of Frensham and Sir John Churchill beside him, seasoned warriors, against the inexperienced Duke and, as the people were unkindly calling them, his pack of country yokels.

But for those days when he called himself King, Monmouth reveled in the glory for which he must have longed ever since he had discovered that he was the King's son. Leaving Bridgwater, he had marched to Bristol, expecting as easy a victory there as he had enjoyed in Taunton and Bridgwater. Alas for him, the King's men had heard of his approach and were ready to meet him in such force that he lost heart and hastily turned back to Bridgwater. Defiantly he issued a declaration, offering five thousand pounds for King James's head.

It was ludicrous.

Meanwhile we waited at home for news. It was of the utmost importance to us now. Luke, my brother, and Kirk were there.

James was grim. He said they had been rash to go. Even Sebastian showed concern. As for me, I was thinking constantly of Kirkwell. What if I never saw him again? I wished then that I had agreed to marry him. Perhaps, had we been betrothed, I might have persuaded him not to go. I longed for his return. It was because I loved him, far more than I had thought.

Christobel was no longer blissfully happy and was clearly distressed. James was worried. It was not good for the baby. He said that Luke was a good-hearted fellow, he knew, though he had this obsession about his birth which had made him side with Monmouth; but to rush in like that was rather foolish. What he could not understand was Kirk's going with Luke. He would have thought Kirk would have had the sense to wait a while ... to see how things went before he rushed in to serve a cause which might be of short duration. And, if it were, that would not have done a great deal of good to those who had supported it.

The King's forces were gathering around Bridgwater. The army was formidable and the great generals had decided to support the King against Monmouth. They knew Monmouth for the reckless man he was. Many of them believed that the law must be obeyed. Monmouth was not the true heir. Many tunes King Charles had denied that he had married Lucy Walter. If he had, why should he not have admitted it? For then he could have produced his son and heir, which every king and ever>' man of property desired to have.

But no, the King had said it many times. "I was never married to Lucy Walter. Let them bring forth a hundred black boxes, a thousand certificates to prove that I was ... I will continue to assure you, I was never married to Jemmy's mother."

The country did not want a Catholic King, but the people insisted that the law must be adhered to. Only the true heir could ascend the throne of England.

And so came the terrible tragedy of Sedgemoor. Poor Monmouth! What chance had he and his band, untrained laborers most of them? How were they to stand against an army trained and equipped with experienced soldiers, under the command of men such as Churchill and Frensham? Monmouth himself was not the bravest of men. He had shown that during his reckless days, when he had cringed before the King, begging his pardon when he was suspected of complicity in the Rye House Plot.

Monmouth would quickly see how the battle was going and he, so the story went, slipped away before the end. That might have been slander from his enemies, but we did know that he was found cowering in a ditch, covered in ferns when he was captured, and that he was taken to London where he begged his uncle to see him that he might crave his forgiveness.

He found his uncle less lenient than his father had always been.

Monmouth's dreams were over. Fourteen days after he had arrived in England to claim the throne, he lost his head on Tower Hill.

We were living in a nightmare. I was filled with dread. The Battle of Sedgemoor was lost and men who had escaped from the battlefield were wandering around the country, seeking shelter—the fugitives from the defeated army. They were not to be allowed to shrug off their misdeeds, their treason, as the victorious side were calling it. Men could not behave so and then act as though it were of no moment. The country had to be shown that treasonable acts were given the treatment they deserved.

Kirk and Luke were in my thoughts all the time. I dreamed of them. Where were they? If they had escaped, they would come to us, surely. But where were they?

A whole day and night had passed since the battle and there was no sign of them. I greatly feared that I should never see them again. My dear brother, who had had such ambitious dreams ... wild dreams that could never come true without a miracle. And Kirk ... Kirk. I had not known how much I loved him until now.

I tried to imagine life without him. I thought of his tender looks for me, his kindness, his tolerance. Why had he gone into this wild adventure? I knew why Luke had. I could follow his way of thinking completely. But Kirk? He was no ardent fanatic, no fervent supporter of the Protestant Faith or hater of Catholics. He believed in freedom of worship for all. But he had believed that England would never support a Catholic King, and that there would be trouble for the country—and that meant for us all—if Catholic James remained on the throne. He was right: James's reign would be an unhappy one. But Monmouth! He was nothing but a boy playing at being a great warrior throughout his entire career, who had shown his weakness.

It was dusk. I went to my room. I sat down and my thoughts were on the battlefield.

Kirk ... Luke ... where are you? I was thinking over and over again.

There was a knocking at my door.

It v,^s Amy, wild-eyed and tearful.

"What is it?" I cried.

"Oh, Mistress Kate, he be down below. He's hiding out. Scared out of his wits, he be. Wants to see ye. He's out there by the shrubbery."

"W^ho? Who?"

"Tom Ricks, Mistress."

I was speeding across the grass to the shrubbery.

"Tom!" I cried.

" Tis I, Mistress. I have to see you. I was with him. Mistress. He said to tell you and give this to you ... if I got away."

He put a ring into my hand. I knew it well. It was gold and Luke had treasured it. He had told me it was the ring our father had given his mother. He had always worn it.

"He was hurt bad. Mistress. In the chest, it was. He couldn't speak much, but he weren't in pain. Well, not much anyway. He knew he was going, and he spoke of you. He wanted me to bring this ring to you if I were able ... so you'd know it was certain, like."

I heard myself murmuring: "Luke ... brother Luke. Oh no, not like this!"

" 'Twere so. Mistress. I were right beside him. Might have had it myself. A miracle I didn't. When he gave me the ring, he just closed his eyes. I stayed with him for a bit ... then I had to go. They say they're looking for us. I've got to hide myself. Mistress."

"Oh, Tom," I said. "Take care."

"Right sure I will, Mistress. They say terrible things will happen to them who fought on Sedgemoor for him that lost."

"Oh, Tom. Get away, then."

"This'll be the first place they'll come looking. There was more than one from these parts as was there. Fm going to my uncle's over Taunton way."

"Oh, Tom. Good luck ... and thank you."

I watched him disappear in the darkness. I was too shocked and bewildered to do anything but go to my room. Heavy-hearted and desperately afraid, I sat through the night.

In the morning I heard that the supporters of Monmouth who had not been captured on the battlefield were being rounded up. Tom Ricks had been caught on the way to Taunton and was now lying in Bridgwater jail.

Luke was dead. My brother, so full of life one day and then no more. All his dreams of one day being Lord of Rosslyn Manor, gone forever. And all for the ambitions of a King's bastard son! How our lives were governed by the acts of others. But for Monmouth's ambitions, we all would have been congregating in Christobel's sitting room, talking, talking ...

And Kirk ... where was Kirk? I greatly feared that he was one of the thousand slaughtered on that fatal battlefield. I would never go near Sedgemoor again. Never, I told myself.

If only I knew! Was it better to know the worst, or go on in suspense, hoping, hoping? And as time passed those hopes became more unlikely of being fulfilled.

There was a gloom on us all. Luke's death had sobered us.

"How I wish we could have news of Kirk," said James. "This is dreadful for Christobel ... and at such a time."

Sebastian was gentle and tender. He really seemed to care. He was more serious than I had ever seen him before.

My thoughts were for Kirk. I pictured him lying dead on that battlefield ... perhaps so badly wounded as to be unrecognizable. Where was he? My mind went back to that time when we had hidden him in the Devil's Tower. He had been in acute danger then.

"Oh, God," I prayed. "Let me know where he is."

If he were dead I should never know the details. There were so many dead. It was just by chance that Tom Ricks had happened to be near Luke when he had died. But no one had any news of Kirk.

I wondered after whether my prayers were answered, or was it because Kirk and I were so close that there was some communication of the mind between us. But I could not stop the memories of that other occasion from returning to my mind. It seemed—or so I thought afterwards—that something, some secret force, was urging me to go to the Devil's Tower.

It was two days after the Battle of Sedgemoor that I went.

It was a hot afternoon. There was no wind and stillness was everywhere. I went through the trees and there it was ... grim, forbidding, haunted.

I felt a certain excitement. I felt that Kirk was close and where could he be but in the Tower? He was a fugitive, as so many were, and where else would he think to hide himself but in the place he knew so well, because he had been there before?

It may sound ridiculous, but I knew I was going to find Kirk in this place.

I pushed open the heavy door. I went up the spiral staircase. I made my way to that room which I had visited so often during that other time, when Titus Oates's men were in the neighborhood.

I pushed open the heavy door.

Kirk was standing there, sword drawn, waiting.

"Kate!" he cried.

I heard the sword clatter on the stone floor, and I was in his arms.

"Oh, Kate," he said. "I hoped you'd come."

"It's a miracle. I knew I'd find you here. I knew it, I knew.''

"I wanted it to be you so much ... I heard the steps on the stairs, and I was afraid it was someone else."

"Kirk, Kirk. What has happened?"

"You know we lost?"

I nodded.

"We had no chance against them. It was all in vain."

"Tell me, please, quickly. How long have you been here?"

"Since the battle ended."

"That is two days. You're hungry."

"One doesn't notice it so much."

"I shall get some food for you. Oh, Kirk, it's wonderful that you are alive. I feared that you ... like poor Luke ..."

I told him about Luke and he was very somber.

"Tom Ricks came to tell me. They have captured him. He is now in jail."

"Poor Tom."

"Kirk, we've got to think. You will have to stay here until it is safe for you to leave. We shall look after you as we did before. I must get food for you quickly."

"Take care, Kate. The King's men will be vengeful."

"Oh, why did you do this?"

"I believe we shall never have a peaceful country under James."

"But it was all fruitless."

"I thought it might not be."

"This is not the time to discuss that. We have to think of what we shall do. Christobel and James will help, and Sebastian. We can trust them. No one else will know. We shall do it just as we did before. It was successful then, and will be so again. Oh, Kirk, Kirk. Thank God you are still alive. Now I will go. I shall ride over to Christobel. I'll get food from her and James. That is safest. I dare say James will come over without her."

I left him then. I went back to the stables and saddled up my horse, then rode over to Featherston. They were amazed to see me, and when they heard that Kirk was alive they were overjoyed. Of course James would take food over right away, then we must all plan very carefully.

"I think," said James, "that he is in as great danger as he ever was with Titus Oates."

He went over to the Devil's Tower immediately, while I stayed with Christobel.

She was very emotional. She loved her brother dearly, and the last days had been deeply unhappy ones for her.

"Oh, Kate," she said. "Why did he do it? It was bad enough for Luke. But Kirk! He is usually so reasonable."

"He thought that England would never be happy with James and a change of Kings was what we needed. I think he is probably right. I remember Father's saying that he had heard King Charles had remarked that James would not hold the crown for more than four years at most. You see, Kirk had the idea that it was better to change immediately ... even for Monmouth."

"He made the wrong judgment, that was all. But he is alive and we will look after him, won't we, Kate?"

"We will," I said fervently.

I sat with her until James returned. He said that Kirk would have to stay in the Devil's Tower for a while, until the situation cleared. They would not go on searching for the Monmouth rebels, as they called them, for long, James was sure. We would keep Kirk safe until then.

Early next morning, Christobel's son was born.

Who has not heard of cruel Judge Jeffreys and his Bloody Assizes? They were upon us. He came to Winchester, to Dorchester and to Taunton, to pass sentence on those who had dared fight against the King, and left a trail of misery behind him.

When we heard that Tom Ricks had been whipped through the streets on his way to the hangman's noose we were stricken with horror. This was a man we had known, a bright, laughter-loving man who had enjoyed living. That he should come to such an end filled me with an angry melancholy.

This man, who had been sent to judge what were called the enemies of the King, was cruel in the extreme: he was also dishonest, far more of a criminal than those whom he was judging.

We heard, and we knew it was true for there was proof of his actions, that it was possible, if one could offer a big enough bribe, to save a loved one, and the evil judge was growing rich from his assizes. One of the most shocking stories of his conduct was being talked of, and from what I had heard of the man already I was ready to believe it.

A young girl, whose father had been sentenced, went to the judge and begged for her father's life. She was young and comely, and the wicked man made a bargain with her that, in return for her favors, he would spare her father's life. The girl was ready to submit to anything that would save her beloved parent and agreed. When she had made her sacrifice, the cruel man apparently thought it rather amusing to lead her to his window, where he showed her her father hanging on a gibbet.

That was Judge Jeffreys, the wicked, notoriously cruel judge, who had been given the task of bringing men to justice.

All over the West Country men were being sent to the scaffold. They hung on gibbets throughout the country at many a crossroads. The axemen were busy, heads adorned many a bridge and some men were quartered and parts of their bodies displayed in prominent places as a warning to others.

Men and women were given to people in favor at court to be sold into slavery; even more were transported to the plantations.

Sorrowing relatives were everywhere. There was smoldering hatred for Jeffreys and his Bloody Assizes.

And this was the man into whose hands Kirkwell would fall if he were captured.

Christobel, James and I were determined to do everything in our power to prevent that. Sebastian, too, no less. He was more serious than I had ever known him.

My father returned to Rosslyn Manor.

He talked to me about the situation.

"Monmouth was a fool," he said. "He had too big an idea of his importance. He could never see things as they were, but only as he wanted them to be. None knew that better than the King, his father. It may be that that was why he set himself firmly against making him his heir.''

"But he was not the heir."

"Indeed no. Fm convinced there was no marriage between the King and Lucy Walter. There was no need. Lucy was free enough with her favors. But Charles might have found the way if he had thought the boy would have made a good King. Charles was a great manipulator, under all that charm of manner and outward easygoing tolerance. That was why, in spite of the life he led, he was a good King. And now ... this trouble. Luke killed." A spasm crossed his face, and I had a glimpse of his true feelings. Luke was his son and I thought then that he would have been delighted if it had been possible to acknowledge him as his heir.

Poor Luke, who had chosen an impossible dream and in a way it had led him to his death, for I feared his allegiance to Monmouth was partly because they were both in a similar situation.

My father said: "The past is done. We have the future to think of. You are eighteen now, Kate. Is it not time that you considered marriage?"

"Marriage with ... ?"

"Sebastian, of course. Oh come, my dear, we have to be practical. You had this romantic feeling for Kirk well Carew. He has gone ... depend upon it. He died on Sedgemoor. That might be lucky for him. I would not care to think of what would happen to him if he fell into the hands of Jeffreys."

I shivered and for a few moments could not hide the horror which came over me.

My father was watching me closely, and he said: "Poor misguided young fellow. The young do foolish things sometimes. Kate, I want you to be wise. I should be very happy if you told me that you and Sebastian were to be married."

"No ... no ... I could not."

"Listen, Kate. You like him. He is one of the pleasantest fellows in the world. He'd make you happy, I know he would. He has all the qualities it takes to make a good husband. I know you have this romantic feeling for Kirkwell Carew ... but you'll forget all that. You cannot go on mourning the dead forever. You have to try and forget him ... and Luke. It was a pity they acted so recklessly, but it is done. You can't stop living because of such sorrows. Say that you will accept Sebastian. Let us forget the miseries this rebellion has brought about. Let us try to make a little happiness."

"No," I said. "No."

"But why? You like Sebastian. Kirkwell is gone ..."

"No," I said. "No!"

He fell silent.

He said after a while: "In time you will see that it is best."

It was my turn to take food to Kirkwell. This always came from Christobel's kitchen. To have taken it from Rosslyn Manor might have attracted attention and aroused suspicion. We knew we had to be very careful indeed.

Christobel had taken some time to recover from the birth of her child. The shock of Luke's death, and the anxieties we had suffered over Kirkwell had had some effect on her. James had been very worried, but now Christobel was much better and her delight in her son had done a great deal to help her recovery.

The child—they had called him Luke after my brother—was a delight to us all. We marveled at him on every occasion and Christobel could not resist the temptation to show him off and boast of his beauty and the marvelous signs of intelligence he was already displaying.

I always chose the mid-afternoon to go to Kirkwell. It was the time when the household was quiet and in any case no one ventured near the Devil's Tower at that time; but there was the possibility that someone might notice that one of us was in a certain spot at the same time every afternoon.

James had said that it was necessary to take the utmost care always.

I had seen Kirk and spent about half an hour with him. I told him the news I had gleaned. The assizes were still going on and were now in Taunton. There was grumbling everywhere about the inhuman actions of the cruel judge, but none had the courage—or the foolhardiness—to speak openly against him.

As I made my way back to Rosslyn Manor I met my father.

"You have been taking a walk?"

"Yes. It is a pleasant afternoon."

He looked over his shoulder.

"I see," he said thoughtfully.

We walked towards the house in silence for a few moments, then he said: "Have you thought any more about Sebastian?"

"No," I said.

"Was it because of Kirkwell Carew that you hesitated?"

He was looking at me steadily. I thought of Kirkwell in the Devil's Tower, his life in such danger. In the last days I had learned something. It was that I thought I should never be happy again if I lost him. I felt deeply the loss of my brother. I would say to myself, Luke would say that ... and then I would realize that he would never be there again. To lose one who has been close to you haunts you forever. It was not so long ago that I had learned I had a brother, but our very relationship had brought us close. I knew I should go on mourning Luke for a long time. But Kirkwell ... that would be for the rest of my life.

I realized that I had not answered and that my father was looking at me intently.

We went into the house and still I had not answered.

I reached my room, sat down and stared ahead of me. Then it struck me suddenly.

I thought: he saw me coming from the Devil's Tower. He knows, I thought. He remembers that last time. If Kirk had escaped, where would he come? To me ... to his sister. It had happened before.

He thinks that, if it were not for Kirkwell, I would marry Sebastian. His plan would succeed.

It suddenly occurred to me that Kirkwell was not only in danger from the King's men, but from my father.

My great fear was realized. The King's men were here. They had been to Featherston Manor but were searching the area.

They were in the great hall. I was frantic with anxiety. I went downstairs. I leaned over the banister and saw them with my father.

I heard them say: "We have reason to believe that he escaped alive after the battle. If he did, it is likely that he would come to this part which he knew so well."

My father saw me. He called: "Kate. These gentlemen are here searching for one of the rebels."

I went into the hall. My father was looking at me. He must have seen the abject fear in my face and he knew that I was aware where Kirkwell was hiding and there could only be the one place where that was.

"They are looking round the neighborhood and, of course, will look at the estate. I shall conduct them round myself."

The men greeted me with respect as Lord Rosslyn's daughter.

"Go to your room, Kate," he said. "I will see you when this is over."

I gave him an appealing glance, but he did not seem to notice it.

I went up to my room. I shut the door and sat, staring blankly at the window.

It was over. Any moment now, my father would betray him. They would take him away to face such horror that I could scarcely bear to contemplate it. I would lose Kirkwell as I had lost Luke ... I just could not bear to think of it.

I was convinced that my father knew Kirkwell was in the Devil's Tower. At any moment now my father would take them to the Devil's Tower and they would find him. And my father would say that he was a fool, as Luke had been foolish. Men have to learn that, if they do foolish things, they must pay for them.

Sebastian would not act foolishly. He was the husband my father wanted for me and he believed that, if Kirkwell was removed from the scene, there would be no more hindrance to prevent my marrying Sebastian.

I think I had never in all my life endured such anguish as I did during that hour. I knew then how much Kirkwell's loss would mean to me, and I thought of the cruel and humiliating death which would be inflicted on him. I knew I should never be happy again and I would blame myself for my carelessness in being the one who had betrayed him.

For my father knew. Something in my manner had told him that Kirkwell was here, and where should he be but in the Devil's Tower?

I loved Kirkwell. I should have married him when he asked me. If I had been his wife, I should never have allowed him to leave me and go into battle. He would have listened to me. I should have made him do so.

I did not know how long it was before I heard the sound of voices below. I ran to the window and saw my father coming towards the house with the King's men.

Kirkwell was not with them.

I saw the men leave, and I dashed down to meet my father.

He looked at me with a rather sardonic smile.

"Well?" he said.

I stared at him.

"They did not find him."

Relief flooded over me. It was obvious, of course.

"He is still safe ... temporarily ... in the Devil's Tower."

"You knew?"

He nodded. "And you knew I knew. You thought I would betray him, did you not?"

I was silent.

"It would have been a solution."

"What are you going to do now?"

"He can't stay there. That's clear. It is not safe. Not completely so."

"But ..."

"Titus Gates and his minions were not so dangerous. These men are going to get Kirkwell Carew if they can."

"You did not tell them?"

"Well, perhaps it was foolish of me. It would have settled matters, would it not?"

"Then why ... ?"

He thought for a moment. "Weak, wasn't it? I thought, if I told them he was there, you would never forgive me."

Again he was smiling that sardonic smile.

"That was one reason. The main one. The other ... well, he's not a bad young fellow, and Jeffreys is a devil."

I was crying weakly. I think it was happiness, if one could possibly be happy with so much danger all around. But he had done this for me although it did not help his plans. I suddenly felt that he was my father indeed.

I moved towards him and he put his arms round me.

I clung to him.

I said: "You love me ... and I will always love you."

I think I babbled something else. He himself was a little incoherent.

Then he put me from him and said in a cool voice: "Now listen. We must be practical. He can't stay there. Those men are determined to find him. They are tired of country yokels. They want some of more standing. Those are the ones Jeffreys enjoys tormenting most. They may be coming back here. I kept them off the Devil's Tower. Knowing the land as well as I do, I could keep them away from it. I might not be so fortunate again. They might question people and hear something of the Tower. Their suspicions would be aroused and they would wonder why I did not show it to them. So, you see, I have myself to think of. We must act quickly."

"You mean you will help us?"

"And myself. Am I not involved now? We'll get him away. He will have to leave the country. I can get him to France. He shall go tonight."

"You mean you will do this ... ?"

"It is necessary, daughter. I must do it for you ... for him ... and for myself."

I went to the Devil's Tower. Kirkwell rushed to me and embraced me, as he always did.

He had no idea then of the great danger he had been in.

"Kirkwell," I said, "I have to talk to you. This is very important. The King's men are looking for you. They have been here today. My father knows you are here. He has held them off. But he says that you are not safe here any longer and you must leave. He is arranging it. He is going to get you to France, where you will have to stay until it is safe for you to return to England."

Kirkwell was staring at me.

"Your father ... But he would be on the side of the King."

"We have to forget all that, Kirkwell. You are his neighbor, whom he has known all your life. How could he let you fall into the hands of that cruel judge? He is right, Kirkwell. You must get out. He says these men may come back, and if they found you, on my father's land, he too would be in danger."

"He's right," said Kirkwell. "I must go."

"He is arranging it all. You will get to the coast, where he will have a boat waiting to take you to France. Oh, Kirk, it is terrible that you must go away, but it is for the best. It is the only thing that can be done."

He put his arms about me, and held me close to him.

"Not to see you, Kate. Though every time you come I am afraid for you. But not to see you ..."

"You will be safe. It will be settled in time. You will be back. This terror cannot go on."

"I will be marked, though, as the King's enemy."

"That will surely be forgotten."

"You say they have come here, looking for me?"

"That was what my father said."

"It is noble of him to help ... But of course there may be some risk to him if it were known that I was given shelter on his land."

"Kirk, you have to go. It is the only way."

"And leave you ..."

I nodded. "It will not be long, I am sure."

"And when I come back?"

"I shall be waiting for you."

"And those doubts?"

"They are not there any more."

"So, it has taken this?"

"Yes, it has. Oh, I was foolish. I don't think I had grown up. Perhaps it takes a tragedy like this to make us understand ourselves. I have lost Luke. I know what it means now to have someone you love taken from you. If I lost you too, well. Kirk, I believe I should never be happy again."

"So," he said sadly, "there is something good in this. And now I am hearing it when I have to leave you."

"Let us look to the future," I said.

"Because the present is too sad to contemplate."

"Kirk, Kirk," I said. "You are coming back. Then we are going to be married. We shall be happy then, I know it, Kirk."

"You do mean this? You do believe it?"

"I must. I could never be happy if it were not so."

For a few moments we were silent and I knew that he was pushing aside everything that stood in our way—just as I was. We were letting our dream of future happiness envelop us and were forcing ourselves to believe in it. It was the only way to help us through the days ahead.

That night, as soon as darkness descended, my father, with Kirk and James, rode to the coast.

I waited for their return, which was not until the next morning.

My father told me then that all had gone according to plan. Kirkwell had got away safely to France.

My father had given him letters to friends of his and what he would need until he could fend for himself.

He would be safe there until the Monmouth rebellion was forgotten and therefore his part in it would be of no more interest.

Two days later the King's men came to the house again. They then searched the grounds and discovered the Devil's Tower, but it was of no significance. Kirkwell was safe across the sea.

The Return

The weeks passed into months. Winter came, and then it was summer. All that time I hoped for news of Kirkwell, but none came.

I was with Christobel almost every day. Frequently we talked of Kirkwell and he was always in our thoughts.

Life was uneasy in England, as Kirkwell had known it would be under Catholic James, who was showing clearly now his determination to take the country back to Rome, while the majority of the people were determined not to go.

Christobel's baby was the main source of delight to us all at that time. Christobel could not be entirely unhappy, however anxious she was about her brother, while she had her little son. And, of course, James was excessively proud of the boy.

Life at Rosslyn Manor had changed a good deal. My father was closer to me than he had ever been before, but he still persisted in his eagerness for me to marry Sebastian and so bring about the complete fulfillment of his plans.

I could never forget that it was his actions which had saved Kirkwell's life and that he had done that for me, although, if he had done nothing, no one could have blamed him. If he had not acted as he had, for me, and Kirkwell had fallen into the hands of the King's men, death would surely have been his fate, and in those circumstances I should surely be more likely to turn to Sebastian.

Sometimes I wondered if my father regretted his rash actions, for he was growing impatient.

"It is very probable that you will never see Kirkwell Carew again," he said. "It would be unsafe for him to return. Trouble could break out at any time, and then you would see prompt action taken against those who have shown themselves to be the King's enemies."

I knew that he was right, but this separation from Kirkwell was heartbreaking. I could have borne it better if I had known what was happening to him.

I wondered if he would try to get a message through to me.

"He would be rash to try that," my father pointed out. "If the letter went astray and passed into certain hands, you would be marked as the friend of a traitor."

"He was no traitor."

"Not to his country, perhaps, but he would be considered so to James. No, he would never involve you, for that is what it could mean."

Lady Rosslyn's attitude towards me had changed since Luke had saved her life during the fire.

Messages from her came to me by way of Margaret Galloway. I was invited to visit Lady Rosslyn, which I did quite often and we were becoming good friends. Although her voice had not fully returned and speaking was very difficult for her, she could hear well enough and understood perfectly, and we devised a means of communication by signs from her hands, which had not been impaired since her seizure.

I used to tell her about London life and the theater, which seemed to interest her.

Two years passed in this way. It was odd, for the days seemed endless, one very much like another, and the time seemed to slip by.

The King was having trouble with the bishops. There was talk of William of Orange having his eye on the throne. He was married to James's daughter Mary, who was heir to the throne until James had a son; and William was also in line to the throne, his mother having been the eldest daughter of Charles I. Intrigue was rife and my father told me that many powerful men were making their way to The Hague and were showing quite clearly their support for William, because they realized that there would never be harmony in the country while James was on the throne.

Francine still flitted in and out of my life. I thought of her as a will-o'-the-wisp. I would not see her for weeks and then suddenly she would seek me out. She would be waiting for me outside the stables or without warning she would come to my room. It was as though she suddenly remembered me and wanted to talk.

She said one day: "Lady Rosslyn likes you now. She used to hate you. And then your brother saved her from the fire and she couldn't hate him any more and, as you were his sister, she couldn't hate you either. She was lying in her bed and the curtains round it were all on fire. Fire rims up the curtain like a little animal and then suddenly it's all red and blue and it makes a crackling noise, as though it's laughing at you because you can't put it out."

She laughed, and I said: "It is not very funny. It would have been terrible if my brother had not been there in time to save her."

"But he was, and he picked her up and walked through the fire with her. It was a beautiful fire. If they hadn't stopped it it would have burned up the house, all of it."

"Let us be thankful that they did stop it," I said. "You've talked of fires before, as though you have a fancy for them."

She looked at me slyly and laughed. Then she was serious.

"They're beautiful. They're red and blue and you can see pictures in them. Your brother walked through it. I wish I'd seen him do that. It was brave of him ... walking through the fire carrying Lady Rosslyn. She would have been dead if he hadn't. The fire would have eaten her all up. It does. I don't like her, so ..."

"So what?" I said.

"So nothing," she said, and, laughing, ran off.

I thought again, as I had done so many times, that she had an unhealthy interest in fires.

And when the tragedy happened I told myself I should have seen it coming, and it should have held no surprise for me.

It happened so suddenly, when I was in the library one day. The library was a large room with its long narrow windows and its high vaulted ceiling similar to most of the big rooms in the house. At the windows hung long red velvet drapes. I was sitting there, browsing through a book and thinking, as I so often did, of Kirk, wondering where he was and whether he was thinking of me, when I was suddenly aware of the door being cautiously pushed open. I turned in astonishment and saw Francine.

She was creeping stealthily into the room and to my horror in her hands she clutched a lighted taper.

I stared at her in astonished silence, and yet, in an instant I knew what she was about to do ... and that she had done the same thing before.

She tiptoed towards the curtains, holding the taper carefully, a beatific smile illuminating her features. It was as though she were about to perform some rite.

I stood up and the book which was on my lap crashed to the floor.

I cried: "Francine! Stop!"

She turned and, as she did so, the taper touched against her dress. I saw the flame catch it and run from the waist to the hem and then all over the top of her skirt.

I shouted something and ran to her, but by this time she was a mass of flames.

Panic seized me and I felt helpless.

I picked up one of the small rugs lying on the floor and tried to wrap it about her. It extinguished some of the flames but was not enough. I tried to beat them out. It seemed minutes before I succeeded. She was lying on the floor. Her hair was almost entirely burned away. I stood for a few seconds, staring at that poor burned figure which had been Francine.

Then I ran out of the room, calling for help.

Francine lived for only two days. It was merciful really, for she was so badly burned as to be almost unrecognizable, and life as she had become would have been intolerable.

She never spoke again and I was not sure whether she knew what had happened to her. That which had so fascinated her and with which she had so daringly played, had killed her.

Poor Margaret Galloway was shattered. She was blaming herself. She was in a dazed state of acute misery and every now and then I would see the tears falling down her cheeks.

Once she talked to me. She said: "You see, I knew. She had done it before."

I said: "In Lady Rosslyn's bedroom?"

She nodded. "I should have done something. I just did not know what. They would have sent her away. Where to? Who would have looked after her? They would never have let her stay here. There was nowhere for her to go. Fire ... it fascinated her. Right from a baby. And there she was ... no mother, no father. I was the only one. I had to keep her here. So ..."

"You cannot be blamed for doing what you thought was best."

"She would have killed Lady Rosslyn ... and then she killed herself."

I tried to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. Poor Margaret, frightened, relying on the favors of her cousin. But I believed Lady Rosslyn was genuinely fond of her; and it was true that she had softened considerably since she had come so close to death before being saved by the bravery of Luke. I think that had had a marked effect on her.

I could not believe that three years had passed since Kirkwell went away. I was no longer a young girl. I was twenty-one years old.

On my twenty-first birthday my father had said to me: "You cannot wait forever. Sebastian is impatient, and so am L"

"This is my life," I said. "I must live it my way."

"I want what is good for you. While King James is on the throne Kirkwell cannot return."

"I think he will."

"If he came back, he would live in perpetual uncertainty. He knows that, and it is something he would never allow you to share. Every rising, every sign of trouble and he would be a suspect."

"I think he might brave that."

"He might. But would he subject you to it? As his wife you would be suspect too. He knows that. If he loves you he will not subject you to that. But, depend upon it, he will not return, and the time is passing."

"I shall wait for him. I have promised."

"You will change your mind. You could be happy, you know. Sebastian will be the best of husbands. You are living in a romantic dream. Come out of it and face reality. And anyway, what is happening to Featherston now? It will revert to what it was before Kirkwell took it in hand. There is a manager, but that is not the same. Look at James Morton and Christobel, with their little Luke, and expecting another. Perfectly content. There is nothing so satisfying as family life."

It was something he had never experienced. He wanted to enjoy it vicariously through me. I felt very tender towards him at times. He desperately wanted this. He wanted those grandchildren, and that would compensate him for those sons and daughters of his own whom he had never seen playing in the grounds of Rosslyn Manor.

I wished I could please him. I was often in Sebastian's company. He did not speak to me of marriage. He was too tactful. I think he understood me better than my father did. I had a feeling that he would ask me if the moment ever came when I gave up hope of seeing Kirkwell again and chose to take the way my father had chosen for me. But it was not yet.

Nevertheless, I was getting more and more fond of Sebastian. I recognized the kindliness and understanding behind that nonchalant exterior of his. I could enjoy a peaceful, serene life with his calm acceptance of whatever life brought him.

Meanwhile the rumblings of discontent went on throughout the nation.

The King was in conflict with seven of the leading bishops and, to the horror of many of his subjects, they were imprisoned in the Tower.

When they were released there was rejoicing in the streets, which was an indication of James's growing unpopularity with the people, and it should have been a warning to him that the people were getting restive. More and more influential and ambitious men were slipping out of England and arriving in Holland. When the Queen bore a son, there was some misgiving in high places. If this son lived, then there would be a Catholic heir.

There were rumors about the child. It was said that there had been something suspicious about his birth. He was not the King's son. They had tricked the nation. The King's wife had given birth to a stillborn child and a healthy one had been substituted in a warming pan. All over the country people were talking of the Warming-Pan Baby.

Rumors said that the shipyards of Holland were working at full strength, and William of Orange was one of the foremost Protestants in Europe. His wife was James's daughter, next in line to the throne, if one did not count this newborn child, the Warming-Pan Baby.

After some months of speculation, when it came it seemed inevitable.

On the fifteenth of November, just over three years since Kirk-well had left England, William of Orange landed at Brixham near Torbay. There was no opposition. Weary of the ineffectual rule of James, and his determination to ignore the will of the people, many were deserting him. The defection of Churchill, with the army, was the fatal blow.

There was little resistance. The inevitable had happened, and, as King Charles had prophesied, his brother James's rule had not lasted four years.

My hopes were high. My father said: "Mayhap he has made a new life over there."

There was a certain wistful look on his face. He did not want me to be unhappy, but he longed to see me married to Sebastian.

It was mid-November. I was in my room thinking: Will he come? Is it possible that he has indeed made a new life over there? Shall I ever see him again?

Then I heard Amy's voice calling me.

I ran down.

He was there beside her.

He looked older, rather gaunt. He had changed, but he was still Kirkwell.

He looked at me and he smiled.

Then he said: "Kate ... you waited."

I was in his arms, touching his face to assure myself that he was real. I was exulting, overcome with emotion.

Then I said simply: "Yes, Kirk. I waited."