Saraband for Two Sisters

In Paul’s Walk

I WAS SAD AS I rode along, for this would be the first time in my life that I had been parted from Bersaba. There was a terrible anxiety in my heart too, for this was a turning point in our lives and I instinctively knew that nothing would be the same again.

I had longed to go to London; so often I had visualized the trip, and I had an uncanny feeling that my very longing had made it come about. Once a wise woman—I think she was certainly a white witch—had come to Castle Paling with her husband who was a kind of travelling pedlar. Aunt Melanie had given them shelter for the night and the woman had earned her lodging by telling fortunes, which amused us young ones. I always remember what she said to me. It was something like this: ‘If you want something badly believe you will get it, think of it, see yourself getting it. It is almost certain that if you do this your hopes will come true. But you may have to pay for it in a way you hadn’t expected—and that way may not be pleasant. In fact it could be that you might wish you had never asked for it.’

That was how I felt now on the road to London. I was here because Bersaba was so ill. I had seen the fear in my mother’s eyes and that she wanted to make sure of my safety, for when Phoebe’s baby was born dead Bersaba had caught the smallpox from the midwife. We did not know this immediately, of course. Bersaba rode out to bring the midwife in the teeming rain and actually went in and shook the old woman before she noticed the terrible signs of illness on her face, and thus she had come into physical contact with her.

When she came back and told us what had happened, my mother herself put her to bed and made her stay there. The next day, however, we heard that the midwife had died and that several people in the village were suffering from the smallpox.

My mother—usually so meek—became like a general gathering her forces about her, going into the attack determined to defeat the enemy—in this case a disease which could kill.

She sent for me and I was immediately aware of her purpose. ‘You will no longer sleep in Bersaba’s room,’ she told me. ‘Your things are being moved to a little room on the east side.’

This room was about the farthest from the one I shared with Bersaba.

‘I don’t want you to see your sister until I say you may.’

I was horrified. Not see Bersaba, I who had been with her almost every hour of my life! I felt as though part of myself was being taken away.

‘We must be sensible,’ said my mother the next day, very calm in spite of the anxiety she was suffering. ‘The fact is that Bersaba has been in contact with a woman who has the smallpox. She had a chill at the time so may well be in a receptive state. We shall know in a week or two at most whether she has contracted the disease. If she has, then I want you to go away.’

‘To go away … from Bersaba when she is ill!’

‘My dear child, this is a dangerous sickness which can result in death. We must be brave, and we shall not be that if we shut our eyes to the truth. I am going to send you to London … if this develops.’

‘To London … without Bersaba?’

‘I want you to be far away. This is going to be distressing, and if Bersaba really has contracted the disease we are going to need all our skills in nursing her.’

‘I should be here to help then.’

‘No. I would not let you run the risk.’

‘But what of you, Mother?’

‘I am her mother. You don’t think I would allow anyone else to nurse her?’

‘What if you caught it?’ My eyes were round with horror.

‘I shall not,’ she said confidently. ‘I must not, for I intend to nurse Bersaba. But as yet we are unsure. I want you to stay away from her. That is why I have changed your room. Promise me that you will not see her.’

‘But what will she think?’

‘Bersaba is sensible. She knows what has happened. She understands the danger. Therefore she will agree that we are right.’

‘Mother, how could I go to London when she may be ill?’

‘You can because I say you must. You are so close … so accustomed to being together, that I fear it might not be possible to keep you apart.’

‘But to go to London … without Bersaba!’

‘I have been awake all night thinking of the best course to take and I have come to the conclusion that this is it. If you were at Castle Paling you would be too near … and I think it would be good for you to have a change of scene. In London everything will be fresh for you. You won’t fret so much.’

‘Mother, you think she may die …’

‘She is going to live. But we have to face the facts, Angel. She is already weak. She has seemed in a highly strung state these last weeks … and then the chill. But I shall nurse her through it. I have sent a message to London telling Senara that in all probability you will be leaving in two weeks unless she hears to the contrary. Make your preparations. I’m afraid you will only be able to take what you have and there will be no time for making new garments. Be of good cheer, Angelet. It may not come to this.’

I was bewildered. I had so longed to go to London, but I had never for a moment thought of doing so without Bersaba. I just could not visualize a life she did not share.

Those two weeks passed somehow. Every morning I would look into my mother’s face to read what I dared not ask. The whole household seemed to be plunged into melancholy. Bersaba stayed in her room and only my mother went to her. She told me that Bersaba understood and realized that it must be so.

Then came the morning when I read the terrible truth in my mother’s eyes. The first dread symptoms had shown themselves.

That was why on that October morning I was travelling to London. I had Mab with me to act as my maid and six grooms to protect me and to look after the baggage. And as I rode along I was thinking of my sister and wondering whether I should ever see her again.

I remember very little of the journey because all the time my thoughts were occupied with Bersaba. We stayed the first night at Castle Paling and that was a sombre occasion because everyone was so shocked by the thought of what might be happening at the Priory.

I could see that they didn’t have much hope of Bersaba’s recovery, and their assurances that it would certainly be a mild attack and that she would have the best attention and that so much had been learned about the disease now that many people were cured, lacked conviction.

The journey took two weeks. To me it seemed like going from inn to inn, then starting off almost as soon as it was light and going on till the horses needed a rest at midday, and then another inn and food before we started off again.

We kept to the byways as much as possible, for the groom in charge believed that there was less likelihood of meeting road robbers that way. He said that highwaymen haunted the main roads because more travellers used them, and although there might be rich people on the byways, robbers might have to hang about in wait for a whole day and meet no one, so they preferred the more regular traffic on the highways.

This seemed to me logical and I suppose we had our share of thrills, but nothing seemed to touch me because I wasn’t so much on the road as in that bedroom at Trystan Priory with my sister. When the rain teemed down I scarcely noticed it; when the roads were impassable and we had to retrace our way I accepted it stoically.

Mab said to me: ‘You’m not here, Miss Angelet. That’s what ’tis.’

And I answered: ‘I can’t be anywhere, Mab, but back at Trystan Priory with my sister.’

And I kept blaming myself in a way because I had so wanted this and it had come about in this strange uncanny way, for I knew my mother would never have consented to our going to London together; she would have thought of all the dangers on the road her darlings would have to face, and perhaps too of other dangers in London society. But there was no danger as great as that which now threatened my sister Bersaba, and my mother would agree to anything that took me out of its path.

So the journey progressed. We crossed the Tamar at Gunislake and travelled across Devon to Tavistock and thence to Somerset and to Wiltshire, where carved on the hillside I saw the strange white horse which was said to have been done in the era before Christianity came to England. As we came to Stonehenge, that impressive and most weird stone circle, I thought vaguely of the rites which were doubtless performed there long before the Romans came to Britain, and was reminded of the strange murmurs there had been about Carlotta and wondered whether she really had been a witch. It was very strange about the toad which had been found in her bed. My mother, who hated talk of witchcraft because she said people were so cruel to innocent old women and worked themselves into a frenzy through their imagination, pretended that there was no such thing. ‘It is in the minds of their accusers,’ she said. As for the toad, her explanation was that it had got into the house in some way, that was if Mab had really seen it. She may well have imagined the whole thing, said my mother, and the girl believed it because that was what she wanted to believe. At least she was allowing me to go to Senara and Carlotta, so she must have been sincere in her disbelief.

And so Stonehenge and on through Basingstoke to Reading, when I found myself a little excited and being ashamed of it, hastily sending my thoughts back to that sickroom in Trystan Priory. I caught a glimpse of Windsor Castle through the trees.

It looked magnificent with its grey towers and battlements and the Great Park which surrounded it; and I thought of history lessons in the Priory schoolroom where I had sat beside Bersaba and we had learned of how Edward the Third had picked up the lady’s garter there and created the motto ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks’—a story which we both loved to hear repeated; and how King John stayed there before signing the Magna Carta at Runnymede, and Henry VIII hunted in the forest. Seeing the very castle of which we had heard so much aroused my interest and excitement, but it was overshadowed by memories of my sister.

I thought then: She will always be there. I shall never escape from Bersaba. It seemed strange to use the word ‘escape’, for that sounded as though I were in some sort of captivity from which I wanted to get away.

We were drawing nearer and nearer to London and my thoughts were not: What is awaiting me in London, but any day there might be news of Bersaba.

And so we came to Pondersby Hall, the residence of Sir Gervaise, which lay not far from the village of Richmond close to the river—the river on which craft of all sizes and shapes sailed in and out of the city of London.

It was a magnificent house but I was accustomed to great mansions, having been brought up between my father’s priory and my grandfather’s castle, and there is nothing quite so inspiring as a castle with its grey battlemented towers and fortress-like exterior, dating back to the Norman era. But Pondersby Hall had a different personality from either the priory or the castle. It was haughty—if one can apply such a term to a house—but it was the word which occurred to me. It had a well-cared-for look which the houses of Cornwall lacked. I supposed that situated in the more cosy south east corner of England it escaped the gales to which we were subject, and the colder drier climate had not played such havoc with its walls. It was not old as houses go. It must have been built round about 1560, so it was less than a hundred years old and it had an air of modernity which the castle certainly lacked.

Perhaps this impression was strengthened by the fact that everything was in such good condition. The grass in the forecourt was neat and looked as though it had been freshly cut that morning. The grey walls looked clean as if they had just been washed—a silvery grey rather than the darker shade of Castle Paling. I was immediately aware of the ornamental scrolled gables with carved masked corbels at their bases. There was a projecting porch, and on the right of this an enormous window, mullioned and transomed, contained panes too numerous to count. The glass of those panes was of blue and red and green and very effective.

I thought, as I was to think so often during the next weeks: I wonder what Bersaba would think of that.

As we came into the forecourt a manservant appeared. He was in green and blue livery which I was soon to learn were the Pondersby colours.

He presented himself to me and, bowing, said: ‘Good afternoon, m’am. We have been expecting you since yesterday. Orders are that you are to be welcomed and taken to your apartment. I will call the grooms and your servants shall be told where to go.’

I thanked him and asked his name.

‘James, m’am. I am the major-domo. In any difficulty if you will acquaint me of it I will endeavour to remedy the fault.’

I wanted to laugh and thought how amused Bersaba would have been by his dignity.

I dismounted, stiff from so long in the saddle, and I immediately felt at a disadvantage. I had an idea that the impeccable James was inwardly raising his eyebrows and asking himself what this was which had arrived to sully his beautiful Hall.

Mab dismounted and took her place behind me. The men followed the groom, I presumed to the quarters assigned to them.

James led us up the two steps to the projecting porch with all the dignity of a man performing a most important ceremony; I was soon to realize that he brought that attitude to everything he did, for whatever it was it had to be shown to be worthy of the attention of James.

We followed him into the hall, where the coloured glass threw a flattering light on to our faces, and I looked up at it admiringly, at the same time taking in the fine plaster ceiling decorated with scrolls, and the minstrels’ gallery at one end of the hall.

A woman in a blue gown, over which she wore a green apron of the same shades as James’s livery, was waiting for us, and I recognized her at once as Ana who had accompanied Carlotta to Cornwall.

‘Our guest has come,’ said James. ‘Take her and her maid to their rooms and make sure that everything Mistress Landor needs is available.’

Ana nodded, less overawed, I fancied, than we were by the dignity of James.

‘If you will come with me I will take you to your rooms,’ she said, ‘and when her ladyship returns I will inform her of your arrival.’

We followed Ana up a staircase which led from the hall to a gallery. Along this we went and mounted another staircase. On this landing were our rooms. A large one for me and a small one leading from it for Mab. I had a window not unlike that of the hall—only much smaller with a window-seat and my panes of glass were uncoloured. My bed was a four-poster, and several mats, of the same tones as the blue of the drapes at the window and the curtains of my bed, covered the wooden floor.

I said: ‘It’s luxurious, isn’t it, Mab?’

‘’Tis certain surely so,’ replied Mab.

‘I will bring you hot water,’ said Ana, and did so.

I washed, and in a short while two menservants—in the usual livery—brought up my baggage.

I asked Mab what she thought of it.

‘It be very grand, Mistress Angelet,’ she said.

‘Yet it’s not much different from home,’ I pointed out.

‘Oh, there be grandness in the air, mistress.’

That was it. Grandness in the air. I looked down at my dusty boots. They looked out of place in this room and I dare say I looked the same.

Mab unpacked my clothes, and as I watched her their glory seemed to diminish before my eyes. I knew instinctively that they would look most unfashionable here.

It was late afternoon when Carlotta came in. She had been riding and I heard her voice as she walked across the forecourt.

I looked down at her. How elegant she was! Her habit was of pale grey and she wore a hat with a curling feather.

‘They are here then?’ She laughed as though there was something amusing about my being there.

She came up to my room and stood on the threshold looking at me.

‘Angelet!’ she cried as she came forward and, taking my hands, drew me to her. It was scarcely a kiss she gave me. Rather did she knock her cheek against mine—first on one side and then on the other.

‘A pity your sister couldn’t come with you.’ Her mouth twisted slightly, and I knew then that she really would have liked to have Bersaba here. I remembered how she had taken Bastian and upset Bersaba quite a bit—although she had pretended not to be—and I thought that perhaps because of that she had a special interest in my sister.

‘Has there been news of Trystan?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘It’s hardly likely. You’ve only just arrived.’

‘I thought it might have come ahead of us.’

She shook her head. ‘How was she when you left?’

‘Very sick.’

‘Some recover,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t brood. Where are your clothes?’

‘Mab has hung them in the cupboard.’

She went there and, looking at them, groaned.

‘Don’t you like them?’

‘They are a little old-fashioned. You will need new things here.’

‘They’re all I have.’

‘We’ll remedy that. I foresaw this so I’m prepared. Ana has already started a gown. She’ll fit you and it will be ready tomorrow. I shall take you into London and buy some fripperies for you … a fan, some patches and some rouge and powder.’

‘Patches and powder!’

‘Yes, we must subdue that blooming country complexion somehow. It will make you look such a bumpkin.’

‘But … isn’t that what I am?’

‘Assuredly you are. That is why we shall have to work hard to make you otherwise.’

She sat down on a chair and laughed at me.

‘You look startled. You are in London—where society is smart. I can assure you it is a little different from Cornwall.’

‘I am sure it is. Perhaps …’

‘Perhaps what?’

‘As I am so unsuitable I should go back.’

‘We’ll make you suitable. It’s just a matter of time. And you can’t go back. Your sister is ill. That’s why you’re here. I doubt your mother would ever have submitted you to the wicked ways of the world but for that.’

She laughed again and I said coldly, ‘I seem to amuse you.’

‘Oh, you do. And you’ll amuse yourself. In a month’s time I’ll remind you of what you are like now and you’ll laugh like mad.’

‘I’m sorry I’m so unsatisfactory,’ I said.

‘Never mind. It’s a challenge. You’ll soon grow up here. That’s the difference really. You are young for your age.’

‘I shall not be eighteen until next birthday.’

‘But eighteen in your dear old Priory is not quite the same as being eighteen in the outside world. You’ll see.’

I said: ‘Where is your mother?’

‘She is on a visit at the moment. She’ll be delighted that you’re here. She always wanted to do something for Tamsyn’s girls and said it was a pity you were condemned to life in the country.’

‘And your husband?’

‘Gervaise is at Court. We have a residence close to Whitehall and I am there often. We are not so far from Whitehall here, so it is not really like being in the country.’

‘Are you happy in your marriage?’

‘Life has been amusing,’ she answered.

‘Is that the same as being happy?’

‘I assure you, my little country mouse, it is the essence of contentment.’

I was uneasy. I disliked being talked down to. Bersaba would have known how to deal with the situation much better than I did. Oh, how I missed her. I was realizing more and more how much I had always turned to her when I was not sure how to act.

Carlotta was aware of my discomfiture and seemed to enjoy it.

‘You will soon fall into our ways,’ she said, ‘and how glad you will be that you have escaped the dull life. Now let us be practical.’

Later she showed me the house, introduced me to some of the servants, examined my wardrobe in detail and discarded most of it.

She said I would be tired after my journey, that I should retire early and tomorrow I could start my new life.

We ate together in a small room off the main hall as we did at home when we were just the family, and she talked all the time about her life, how exciting it was and how different I was going to find it, behaving all the time as though she were my benefactress.

As soon as supper, was over she said I should go to my room and sleep, for she was sure I was tired out. I was certainly glad to escape.

Mab came in and helped me get to bed, but when I lay there I could not sleep. I kept thinking of how Carlotta and Senara had arrived at the Castle and how Grandfather Casvellyn had looked like an angry prophet when he had said no good would come of their return into our lives.

Now Bersaba was ill and perhaps I should never see her again. I felt bereft. We were as one. How could I go on living without her?

I could not stop thinking of her lying in that room we had shared for so many years while the dread disease afflicted her. Bersaba tossing in fever, delirious … no longer my calm self-possessed sister—the clever part of us, the one whom I had thought I should never have to do without.

A few days passed during which I did not go far afield. Carlotta was anxious that I should not until I was adequately dressed and, as she said, had cast off some of my country manners, which she made me feel would be despised in London. I must learn to walk with more dignity, hold my head high, to move with grace, to bow, to curtsey and to overcome a certain accent which would not be acceptable in London society.

I allowed myself to be primed and took an interest in it, largely because it turned my mind from brooding on what was happening at home. I had to shut out the thought of Bersaba’s face on the pillow—fevered, her eyes wild, and the horrible signs of her illness upon her. I kept telling myself that I could do no good by dwelling on it, so I meekly allowed myself to be turned into a copy of a town-bred girl.

Carlotta was certainly enjoying the operation. I wondered whether she enjoyed scoring over us for some reason. Although I was parted from Bersaba I still thought of us together, and I asked myself now whether Carlotta had taken up Bastian as she did because she knew of Bersaba’s fondness for him. It seemed that that might be characteristic of her.

On the third day after my arrival Senara returned. She embraced me warmly and seemed really pleased to see me, and asked a good many questions about Bersaba. I had the impression that she really cared about my mother.

‘Poor Tamsyn,’ she said. ‘I can picture her distress. She was always more like a mother to me than a sister, though she was but a year older. She mothered everyone … even her own mother. I know she will be in great distress. I am glad to have you here with us and I shall write to your mother and tell her so.’

She was more sympathetic and understanding than her daughter, and I was able to talk to her and tell her how homesick I was and how I was wondering whether I ought to go home as Carlotta did not seem to think I fitted into the London scene.

She shook her head. ‘You have a certain charm, Angelet, which is appealing and I am sure many people here will appreciate it. Your fresh country innocence will seem charming to people who are weary of the society ways which are often false.’

‘Carlotta wants to change me.’

‘We must see that she doesn’t succeed too well.’

Senara certainly comforted me, particularly when she talked about her childhood and how she and my mother had been as close as sisters. ‘I know how you feel about Bersaba,’ she said. ‘Of course your mother and I were not twins, but the manner in which I came to the castle made her feel she had to protect me, and I always enjoyed that motherly security she threw around me. She does it to many. It’s her way.’

So I felt better when Senara returned, and when I went riding with her and we passed along by the river I was temporarily forgetful of everything but the wonder of it, for as we approached the city the boats on the river were so numerous that they almost touched each other.

Senara was pleased at my wonder. She told me that I was in the greatest port in the world and that ships came here from every place I could imagine. I was excited and comforted to see some of the ships from my father’s East India Company because that made me feel that I was not so very far away. How wonderful they looked! How powerfully built! They were equipped to face the storms they would meet at sea as well as armed against pirates! Then I began to wonder what my father was doing now—and Fennimore and Bastian—and fear touched me that some ill might befall them and if Bersaba were to die …

Senara, glancing at me, saw the misery in my face and she said kindly: ‘Everything will come out well, I promise you.’

‘How can you know?’ I asked.

‘I know these things,’ she told me. I thought: She is a witch, and I wanted to believe she was so that I could assure myself that she was right.

She showed me the wharves where goods were being unloaded—some by the Company’s ships and others from Amsterdam, Germany, Italy and France. I could not help being enthralled, and after that a little of the burden of fear lightened. Senara had said that all would be well and that meant that my family would be safe. I believed Senara. As a witch she could have special knowledge of these matters.

The days which had seemed endless by the end of the first week began to fly past. I had a new wardrobe now and I was pleased that my clothes were looser than those we had worn in the country. Ana, who was a good seamstress, told me that the stiff fashions which had once come from Spain were quite outmoded now. Farthingales were never worn and one did not put stiffening under skirts to make them stand out. Ruffs were completely of the past, so were high collars, and it was smart and becoming to wear low-cut dresses. The wrists and arms were often shown and some of my new gowns had sleeves which came only to the elbow. When I wore these I had long gloves and a great deal of attention was paid to getting the right ones.

Ana dressed my hair too. She gave me a fringe of curls on my forehead which had to be crimped each day.

Mab, like myself, had to go through a certain tuition. I think she enjoyed it, for she started to give herself airs and talk disparagingly of the poor maids at Trystan who had no idea what fashion meant.

I was beginning to feel that but for the anxieties about what was happening at home and if Bersaba could have been with me, my trip to London would have been a great adventure.

Sir Gervaise appeared a few days after my arrival. He was kind and asked solicitously after my family. He was quite clearly concerned and I thought he was much more kindly than his wife and I wondered if he was happy in his marriage. I believed that Carlotta would be a demanding and not very affectionate wife. Of course he admired her beauty, which was something one could not help but be aware of. When I looked at myself in the mirror with my fashionable fringe and my rather bony wrists I often thought what a contrast I made to the elegant magnificance of Carlotta. She seemed to be aware of it too, for she viewed me with great complacency.

So I began to feel a little happier, for Senara’s certainty that all would be well and Sir Gervaise’s gentleness were of great help to me.

Every day I would hope for a message from home, but Senara said: ‘It is as yet too early. Your mother would wait to tell you until she was certain that the crisis was over. I promise you it will be, but remember it will take a little time for the messenger to get here.’

Sir Gervaise told me that he knew several people who had suffered from the smallpox and survived. Careful nursing, the sickness taken in time … these things worked wonders!

They did all they could to sustain me, and I began to accept their conviction. All will be well, I told myself. It must be. There could not be a world without Bersaba.

I dreamed of her; it was as though she were with me, laughing at my fringe and my shyness with Carlotta. It was almost as though she injected some of her qualities into me. Sometimes I used to think: We are really one person, and I believed she was thinking of me at that moment as she lay on her sick-bed, just as I was thinking of her, so that part of me seemed in that bed of fever and part of her was here in this elegant house learning something of fashions and ways of London society.

I liked to listen to Sir Gervaise talking. He knew that I was interested and seemed to enjoy it when I listened so intently.

He told me that he was rather concerned about the way in which the country was moving. The King could not be aware of his growing unpopularity and the Queen did nothing to help.

‘The people here are suspicious of her,’ he said, ‘because she is a Catholic and she will do all she can to bring Catholicism into England. Not that she could ever succeed. The people here will never have it. Ever since Bloody Mary’s reign they have set their hearts against it.’

I asked about the King and he told me: ‘A man of great charm, of good looks—for all he is of small stature—and perfect manners. But he will never win the popularity of the people. He is too aloof. They do not understand him nor he them. He is proud, with a firm belief that God set the King on the throne and that his right to be there is unquestioned. I fear it will bring trouble … to him and the country.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘I am wearying you. Forgive me.’

‘Indeed you are not,’ I assured him. ‘I long to learn something of what is happening at Court.’

‘I fear,’ he said ominously, ‘that before long the whole country will be aware of what is happening at Court.’

I gradually began to understand what he meant, and my education began the next day when Carlotta took me into London to buy lace and other materials such as ribbons, gloves and a fan or two. We went in style, for Sir Gervaise, being a rich and important gentleman, was the owner of a coach, and because Carlotta had the ability to wheedle anything out of him, she persuaded him to allow her to use it. It was grand, like a padded box with seats for two at the back and front and a window with velvet drapes which could be pulled if one wished to shut out the street scene. Sir Gervaise’s family crest was emblazoned on the side and it was drawn by two magnificent white horses. The driver was resplendent in the Pondersby livery and so was the footman mounted at the back.

Thus in state we set off, and as we approached the city I became aware of an atmosphere of bustle and excitement; there were people on horseback and people on foot, all behaving as though their business was of the utmost urgency, matters of life and death. For the first time I saw one of the new hackney coaches which could be hired for short distances; a carrier’s waggon trundled past us and, with a great deal of noise, turned into an inn yard. There were so many barges and other craft on the river that the water was almost invisible; and everywhere people seemed to be shouting, calling to each other, sharing jokes, quarrelling, cajoling, threatening. I saw men and women in the most exaggerated of costumes. The low-cut dresses of the women seemed distinctly immodest to me, but at home we were still in the fashions of twenty years before, I supposed, when even ruffs and certainly the high collars which followed them were still being worn. The men were more surprising than the women, for they wore wide sashes and their garters, just above the knee, were made of ribbon with big bows at the side; and there were rosettes on their shoes.

But this elaborate costume was not general, for there were of course the beggars—ragged, sharp-eyed, darting hither and thither, pleading and threatening, and there was another kind of citizen who by the very sombre nature of their dress called attention to the splendour of others. These were men in cloth doublets and dark-coloured breeches, their collars were plain white and their tall crowned hats were unadorned by feathers; the women who were with them were dressed in plain gowns usually grey in colour, with white aprons protecting their skirts and white caps or plain tall hats similar to those worn by the men. They were like a different race of people; they walked quietly, eyes downcast except when they cast looks of contempt at those who swaggered by in their flamboyant garments.

I asked Carlotta who these people were.

‘Oh, they are the Puritans,’ she said. ‘They believe it is wicked to enjoy life. See how they cut their hair.’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘It’s a great contrast to those who wear theirs long like women.’

‘Long hair is so much more becoming.’

‘The contrast is so great,’ I said. ‘In the country no one looks as grand and no one as sombre.’

‘They will. Fashions arrive in time … even in remote places like Cornwall.’

I disliked the denigration in her voice when she talked of my home, so I said no more and gave my full attention to the scene before me.

I had never seen women such as those I occasionally glimpsed. Their faces were highly coloured in a manner which could never be natural, and many of them had black spots and patches on their faces. I saw two of them in an argument and one started to pull at the other’s hair, but the coach passed on so I did not see the outcome of that affair.

When we stopped, beggars looked in at the window and called a blessing on us if we would give them just a little to buy a crust of bread. Carlotta threw out coins which clattered on to the cobbles, and a ragged boy who could not have been more than five years old darted forward and seized them. The beggars set up a wail but the coach passed on.

We left the coach at St Paul’s and Carlotta told the coachman to wait for us there and guard well the coach while we explored Paul’s Walk for the articles we had come to buy.

My experiences grew more astonishing with every passing minute. There in Paul’s Walk, which was the middle aisle of St Paul’s Cathedral, was a market and a promenade and a meeting place for all kinds of people.

Carlotta bade me keep close and I could see why. We were watched as we passed along, and now and then a lady or a gentleman as grandly dressed as Carlotta would stop and exchange a word with her, when she would present me as ‘a visitor from the country’ at which I could be graciously smiled on and then ignored.

People pressed close against us; cunning faces studied us; it would have been frightening to have been alone; but the promenades were filled mainly with people like ourselves, and as there were stalls containing materials of the finest quality and ribbons, laces, fans, patches, books and ornaments, the vendors were eager for our patronage and frowned on the beggars who lurked around and, I was sure, were intent on picking the pockets of the unwary.

I saw a man with his tailor who was telling him how much material he should buy; there were notices on the pillars offering services of all natures. There was a woman with a young girl and boy who looked downcast and indeed terrified. I guessed she was offering them as servants for some rich household. I saw a woman with an evil face talking earnestly to a young dandy in a cloak of crimson velvet with gold lace on his breeches; a very young girl was with her—and as she was clearly being shown off to the young man even my country innocence could guess the nature of that transaction. It was all rather terrifying and yet exciting. The place seemed to have a life of its own such as no other I had ever known had had.

Carlotta suddenly announced that she could not find what she wanted in the Walk so we would go to the New Exchange in the Strand. So we got into the coach, and it was not easy to move along, for people crowded round it, laughing at our vehicle, touching it, peering in the window at us, offering us all sorts of merchandise—from silver chains to silk kerchiefs—many of which had been, I had no doubt, but a short time before snatched from some unwary passer-by.

So we came to the New Exchange and ascended to an upper gallery, which was lined with shops offering for sale ribbons, laces, cloth of all description, powder, rouge, patches, cuffs and collars, some very fine, embroidered in gold and silver.

Carlotta made a few purchases and we returned to the coach.

I was fascinated by the Strand and the grand houses there whose gardens ran down to the river; I loved the narrow streets at the end of which I could see the water lapping; in fact I was ready to admit that I had never dreamed there could be such a place, and the very fact that underlying its grandeur was something so certainly sinister but added to its attraction.

We had left the Strand well behind and were coming toward Whitehall when I saw the most fearful sight I had, to that time, ever seen.

I had seen men in the pillory before, for there was one in our village and offenders were often put in it and made to endure the ridicule of passers-by in order to impress on them the error of their ways; but I had never seen anything like this.

These two men were in the sombre garments which proclaimed them as Puritans. They did not look like men because I could not see their faces for blood; it had splashed on to their hands which protruded through the holes.

I stared in horror and Carlotta followed my gaze.

‘Puritans,’ she said. ‘They have been making trouble.’

‘What trouble?’

‘Perhaps talking against the Court. They are always trying to stop all sport and pleasure. They criticized the Queen, no doubt, and accused her of trying to foist Catholicism on the nation.’

‘And for that …?’

‘They have lost their ears,’ she said.

We had passed on. The coach carried us on through green fields and the pleasant villages of Kensington and Barnes until in due course we arrived at Pondersby Hall, and for me every impression of that colourful scene had been overlaid by the sight of those two Puritans in the pillory.

I began to understand what Gervaise meant when he talked about the uneasiness in the country.

Carlotta was pleased because there was to be a ball at one of the fine houses near Whitehall, and she and Sir Gervaise had received an invitation which included Senara and the visitor from the country—myself.

‘You have been noticed,’ said Carlotta. ‘This is at the house of Lord Mallard who is a confidant of the King, so it is almost certain that Their Majesties will be present.’

There was a great deal of excitement as to what must be worn and even Carlotta was less languid than usual. Ana was pressed into service, and as the time drew near it was discovered that we were short of the lace with which Carlotta’s gown was to be trimmed and that ribbons were needed for my dress.

We would therefore take the coach and there would be another trip into the city. My feelings were a little mixed. I was uneasy about the ball, for Carlotta had so impressed on me my lack of social grace, and although I felt a great excitement at the prospect of visiting the city again I had not forgotten the sight of the two men in the pillory.

We set out early in the Pondersby coach. It was misty down by the river, which gave an aura of enchantment to the scene. There was a blue haze on the trees which I found entrancing and I felt my spirits rising as high as they could, oppressed as they always were by anxieties about what was happening at home.

We came to St Paul’s Walk and I was again fascinated by the people there. I was listening to a moneylender with whom a languid gallant most extravagantly clad was trying to arrange a loan; then my attention was caught by a horse dealer who was explaining to a prospective buyer the points of the animal he was leading; there was a man writing a letter at the dictation of an anxious-eyed woman, and I found myself wondering what tragedy had brought her there. Carlotta was busy with the lace seller and had moved round to the side of the stall, and as I stood there a woman approached me, her eyes full of anguish.

‘Lady,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, ‘spare me something. My husband is dead … drowned in the river when his boat overturned. I have six starving children and not a bite has passed their lips these last two days. You have a kind face. You’ll give, I know.’

And I knew that if I turned away as Carlotta would have bidden me I should never be able to forget her face, so I took out my purse and opened it, but at that moment a boy who could not have been more than eleven years old darted up and snatched the purse from me.

I cried out but he was already disappearing and without thinking I ran after him. I could see him darting in and out of the crowd and I followed, calling: ‘Come back. Give me back my purse.’

The crowd impeded the thief’s progress as well as mine, and I kept him in sight until he broke free and ran down an alley.

Without thinking I followed. He ran round a corner and I went after him, but he had already turned another corner and when I followed I could no longer see him. I stopped short. Two men were coming towards me and I felt myself go cold with fear, for they had such evil looks. Their unkempt hair fell over their faces, their ragged garments hung loosely, and through the rents in them I caught glimpses of dirty skin. They were smiling in a way which was horrifying.

I turned to run but I was too late, and I realized in that moment that I did not know where I was.

There was one of them on either side of me, their leering faces close to mine. One pulled at the chain about my neck which my mother had given me, and I cried out in protest.

My arms were pinioned and I started to scream loudly.

‘You’re caught, my pretty,’ said one of the men, his face so near mine that I smelt his foul breath and saw his ugly broken teeth.

‘Let me go. Let me go …’ I shouted wildly.

‘Not yet …’ said the other, and they began to drag me towards the door of a dwelling which I had not noticed before.

I began to pray to myself because I had never been so frightened in my life, and I knew that these men meant to inflict on me the worst of all evils and possibly death; and it had all happened so suddenly, for one moment I had been thinking of laces and ribbons, letter writers and moneylenders, and now here I was captured, and even in such a moment I thought of my mother when she learned what had happened to me.

Then I heard a shout from behind: ‘Hold. Hold, you villains, hold!’

A man was running down the road. I had a fleeting glimpse of him and I cried out in thankfulness, for there was something about his appearance which told me that I could trust him to help.

He was elegantly clad but not foppishly so, and there was a sword in his hand which he was brandishing menacingly. The change in my captors was immediate. They did not wait to face him. They simply released me and ran.

I was trembling and could not keep my voice steady as I stammered: ‘Oh, thank you … thank you.’

‘I saw it all,’ he said. ‘The boy snatching your purse and your attempt to catch him.’

‘I am so grateful.’

‘You are new to London, I am sure. Let me escort you from this warren. It is not good for you to be here.’

He returned his sword to its scabbard and, taking my arm, led me through the alley the way I had come.

‘It was unwise,’ he said, ‘to follow the boy.’

‘But he had my purse.’

‘It was equally unwise to take out your purse as you did.’

‘The woman had six starving children.’

‘I doubt that. She’s a professional beggar. Tomorrow she will have a dying husband or a dying mother. They vary their stories, you know.’

‘I see that now, but I believed her.’

‘Next time you will be more sceptical. Tell me your name.’

I told him and that I was staying at Pondersby Hall.

‘I have made the acquaintance of Sir Gervaise,’ he told me. ‘I am Richard Tolworthy, a soldier of the King’s army.’

‘I can only say again thank you, sir. I have never been so terrified in my life.’

‘It is a lesson learned. Look on it that way.’

‘But if you had not seen … if you had not been there to save me …’

‘I was and it was my pleasure. Where do you wish to go?’

‘I left Lady Pondersby buying laces in Paul’s Walk. We came in from Pondersby Hall in the coach.’

‘Then I will take you back to Paul’s Walk and we will find Lady Pondersby.’

We were very quickly there. Carlotta had been so engrossed in the lace buying which she had just completed and she was looking round wondering what had become of me when she saw me with my rescuer.

She cried out: ‘Whatever has happened?’

‘Something terrible,’ I answered. ‘I’ve lost my purse. A boy snatched it. I ran after him and there were two men … This gentleman saved me.’

Carlotta was gravely surveying Richard Tolworthy, and I thought with a little stab of jealousy: I suppose he is thinking how beautiful she is.

He bowed and said: ‘Richard Tolworthy at your service, m’am.’

‘Why, sir,’ she laughed, ‘it seems you have indeed been at our service. Mistress Landor is newly arrived from the country.’

‘I gathered so,’ he said.

I felt deflated and sad suddenly, as Carlotta went on, ‘And as she does not seem inclined to present me, I will tell you that I am Lady Pondersby, wife of Sir Gervaise.’

‘Of whose acquaintance I have the pleasure,’ said Richard Tolworthy. ‘May I escort you to your coach?’

‘Thank you. I would be glad if you did. I see Mistress Landor has been considerably shocked by the adventure.’

‘I fear so,’ he said, glancing briefly at me. ‘But at least she will know how to avoid such an experience if—may God forbid—it should occur again.’

‘It would have been terrible if you had not been there. I should never have forgiven myself!’ said Carlotta. ‘Oh, here is the coach. Could I take you to your destination?’

‘Thank you. I have business in the Walk.’

He handed us both into the coach and stood back, bowing.

As we moved away, Carlotta said: ‘Well, you have had a little adventure, have you not?’

‘I was terrified … until he came.’

‘I should think so. Two men, you say … with evil intent. Robbery with rape, doubtless. You have learned something of the streets of London this morning. Let it stand you in good stead.’

It was characteristic of Carlotta that she should see the incident as an example of my folly rather than her neglect and should seek to make me feel the more foolishly inexperienced because of it.

But she did not dwell on that. She was clearly interested in my rescuer.

‘I have heard his name,’ she said. ‘I believe him to be one of the King’s generals.

‘He said he was a soldier.’

‘Yes, a high-ranking one. It was obvious in his bearing. It was civil of him and gallant of him, was it not?’

‘It was indeed.’

She leaned back against the upholstery of the coach.

‘What is it I have heard of him? Something I fancy. I believe there is some mystery about him. I must ask Gervaise.’

She half closed her eyes, smiling. I realized that she was indeed intrigued by Richard Tolworthy.

As for myself I could not shut out of my mind the terrible moment when those two men had loomed up beside me and somehow conveyed their purpose. I could not imagine what would have happened to me if Richard Tolworthy had not appeared. It was quite beyond my ability to do so. But I knew that I would rather they had killed me.

And then he had come. I remembered certain things about him. It was a stern face as became a high-ranking soldier. It was a strong face—cold, though. I suppose he had despised me for walking so foolishly into such a trap. I had lost my purse but fortunately I had had very little money in it, and I would make sure that such a thing never happened to me again, so perhaps the experience was well worth the price I had paid for it.

He was tall and his skin slightly bronzed, so I supposed he had fought the King’s battles in other countries. I wondered whether I would ever see him again and I felt a flutter of excitement because it did not seem unlikely. He would move in Court circles—those of which Sir Gervaise was a member. I wondered whether he would notice me if we met again. When Carlotta had appeared I had the impression that she had shown him that I was to be despised for my folly, although before he had been kind, understanding of my inexperience.

When we arrived at Pondersby Hall, all thought of the man and the adventure receded, for there was a letter from my mother. I seized it and ran to my room with it because I could not bear to read it under the scrutiny of Carlotta’s eyes.

My fingers were trembling as I opened it. My fears of what I would read made it impossible for a second or so to see the words which danced before my eyes.

‘My dearest Angelet,

I hasten to tell you the good news. Bersaba is going to recover. She is very very weak but …’

The letter slipped from my hands. I just buried my face in them and I started to weep as I had not since the terrible anxiety had begun—tears of relief, tears of joy. Life would go on again.

Senara came and sat with me. She too wept a little and we sat side by side holding hands. I loved her in that moment because of her true affection for my mother.

She kept saying, ‘Thank God. Thank God. It would have killed Tamsyn. This is due to her nursing, you can depend upon it. Her mother’s care has defied the laws of nature. Tamsyn is one of the truly good women in this world.’

She put her arms round me and held me fast.

‘Did I not tell you so?’ she demanded.

And I answered: ‘You did!’ And I thought: You are truly a witch.

Mab was happy.

‘I couldn’t believe Mistress Bersaba could die,’ she said. ‘She’s too sharp for it.’

I laughed at that observation. It was with the laughter that is born of relief and happiness because that great black cloud had been dispersed and the skies were blue again.

Carlotta said: ‘Now you can stop fretting and begin to take a real interest in everything. It’s been exasperating to have you so lukewarm when I take so much trouble to launch you.’

I laughed at her too—the same sort of laughter.

At dinner Carlotta told Sir Gervaise of my adventure.

He was most concerned.

‘My dear Angelet,’ he said, ‘that was a most unwise thing to do!’

‘I know it now. But, you see, it was my purse.’

‘You could have lost so much more.’

‘It was great good fortune that Richard Tolworthy was at hand. Gervaise, you’ve met him. What do you know of him?’

‘He’s a good soldier. He’s had great success in several campaigns.’

‘I mean … personally,’ said Carlotta with a trace of impatience.

Sir Gervaise looked thoughtful. ‘There was something about him. It slips my memory.’

‘Oh, do try to think.’

‘I don’t know. A somewhat unsociable fellow if I remember rightly. He doesn’t mix in society a great deal. Devoted to his profession, of course, which occupies him. Lost his wife …’

‘So he was married.’

‘I believe so.’

‘How could he have lost his wife if he wasn’t,’ said Carlotta with some show of exasperation.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Sir Gervaise. ‘Perhaps it was something else. However, there was some story.’

I lay awake a long time that night. I was thinking of the rejoicing at home. Bersaba no longer in danger, but very weak still and she would be for a long time. We could bear that. My mother would nurse her back to health and when I went home she would be there.

I slept at last and dreamed that I was at home. Bersaba and I were in the hall and as we sat there a man came in. He bowed and I said: ‘This is Bersaba whose life has been saved and, Bersaba, this is Richard Tolworthy who saved mine.’

And he sat down between us and we were very happy together. I awoke reluctantly from that dream.

The Betrothal

I FORGOT THAT UNPLEASANT adventure and thought about the exciting new experiences which were crowding in on me. I could now say to myself, I will tell Bersaba that, without the terrible foreboding coming over me that I might never be able to. I could, in other words, be happy and carefree, so I let myself think about the Mallard ball. I was to have a very special ball gown which Sir Gervaise wished to give me—a thanksgiving offering for two happy events, he told me: my escape from the London villains and the recovery of my sister, and he wanted me to be very happy wearing it.

‘Gervaise doesn’t want you to look like a little country mouse at the Mallard ball,’ said Carlotta, attempting to douse my pleasure as usual; I replied spiritedly that I thought the reason was that Gervaise wanted to be kind.

She shrugged her shoulders. The important thing was the dress. I was to have a rose pink silk bodice and flowing skirt over a most elaborate cream satin petticoat embroidered in gold thread, and it would be cut very low to enhance my long neck which Carlotta rather grudgingly admitted had a certain grace, but the immaturity of my bosom would have to be disguised.

Ana, who was making the dresses, whispered to me that that which Carlotta disparaged was in fact my youthfulness which to many would be very attractive, so I must not be depressed by my immaturity.

‘There are many ageing ladies who would give a great deal to possess it,’ she told me.

I discovered during the making of that dress that Ana was interested in me. She would kneel beside me and encourage me to talk. She liked to hear about Bersaba.

‘You look so alike,’ she said, ‘yet there is a difference.’

‘Most people can’t tell it,’ I replied.

‘Do you know,’ said Ana, ‘I think I could.’

I told her how Bersaba had gone to the midwife because she was so concerned about one of the servants whose baby was overdue.

‘I remember,’ said Ana, ‘she warned us that there was murmuring in the village against my mistress … and yet …’ She hesitated and I looked at her expectantly and Ana said: ‘I did not think she was so fond of my mistress.’

‘I do not think she was either,’ I answered, thinking of Bastian.

‘Yet she warned her.’

‘Of course she would warn her. The mob can be terrible when they are on the march. I once saw them taking a witch. It was horrible. There is something frightening about a mob. Ordinary people become like savages when they get together, and what is supposed to be a righteous cause rouses them to madness and cruelty.’

‘Your sister is a strange lady,’ said Ana.

‘Oh, I know her well. I understand her. Sometimes I think we are one person because there are times when it seems that nature divided the human qualities between us and gave all to one of us and none to the other. She is so much cleverer than I. It didn’t occur to me to go for the midwife, although I knew that the baby was overdue. I’m thoughtless, I suppose, thinking less of other people.’

‘I think you inherited your share of good points, my lady,’ said Ana. ‘Indeed, I should not think your sister has them all. It would be a mistake to think so if some occasion were to arise …’

I looked at her sharply and she went on: ‘But I talk too much. Look at the set of this bodice …’

I was mystified as much by her manner as by her words. It was almost as though she were trying to warn me. Warn me against Bersaba! What nonsense!

But she did seem fond of me, almost protective, and I was beginning to feel that I had kind friends about me. Senara was anxious to make me happy for my mother’s sake, but very soon she would be leaving for Spain. She told me how delighted she was to hear of my sister’s recovery and that if Bersaba had died she would have gone back to be with my mother. Now all was going to be well, it was only a matter of Bersaba’s getting strong again, and it occurred to me that now there was no longer any fear of infection I should soon be returning home.

The night of the ball arrived. I was thrilled to see myself in the most elaborate and exquisite ball dress I had ever possessed. Ana came in to make sure that Mab had helped me dress in the right manner. She whispered to me that she would have liked to do my hair herself but her ladyship was demanding her full attention. She glanced with approval at the dress and said I did it credit, but she was not quite happy about my hair and was going to find some time to come to me and do it as it should be. She came in due course and combed my curled fringe in the right manner, and my long thick hair was coiled up at the back of my head.

The Mallard residence was a large mansion with gardens which ran down to the river. Our hosts received us, and looks of interest were bestowed on me before we passed on. People gathered round Sir Gervaise and Carlotta, who appeared to be very well known, and I was introduced to a young man gloriously attired in breeches of satin, the shape of the bellows we used at home for getting the fire to burn, and I laughed to myself to wonder what he would think of such a homely description, for they were of pale blue satin tied at the knee with a bunch of multicoloured ribbons.

He was a little languid and I was afraid that I was out of step in the dance, which seemed to surprise him. I was relieved when the dancing stopped abruptly and there was a sudden silence over the ballroom. This heralded the arrival of the King and Queen, and the company immediately formed itself into two lines through which the royal party passed, and I had the privilege of getting a close view of Their Majesties. The King was undoubtedly handsome, with clear-cut features, a well-trimmed beard and hair which curled on his shoulders. He looked kindly but stern, and although his stature was not great there was about him such an air of dignity that I would have known him in any gathering as the King. As for the Queen, she had a fascination of her own, largely due to a vitality which was apparent even in her smile, and although she was far from good-looking—for her nose was long and her prominent teeth not good—she had large dark eyes which shone with interest in all about her and her pale skin was smooth and delicate.

I felt deeply moved as I swept the curtsy I had been instructed in while they passed on. And I thought: How I shall enjoy telling Bersaba this.

I had lost my languid gallant who had doubtless taken the opportunity to find a more sophisticated partner, and while I was feeling rather lost and looking for Senara or Sir Gervaise, a voice close to me said: ‘So we meet again.’ And standing before me was the man who had rescued me from the alley.

I felt myself flushing with pleasure and a certain tingling excitement which he inspired. He went on: ‘It occurred to me that we should meet again before long.’

‘I hope,’ I answered, ‘that I thanked you adequately.’

‘You did indeed. Your appreciation was apparent. Do you care to dance?’

‘I enjoy it but I am not so practised in the Court dances as I should like to be.’

‘To tell the truth, no more am I. I’ll warrant you excel at those which are performed in the country. I think they capture the spirit of dancing more surely than these ballroom dances. I’ll warrant you excel at Leap Candle and Sellengers Round as well as Barley Break and John Come Kiss Me.’

I laughed aloud. ‘I love them all. We dance them at Christmas time, and when we’ve brought the harvest in we make our corn-dollies to ensure a good harvest next year.’

‘Ah, you make me envious of the joys of the country. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll go into the garden. We can find a seat there and we’ll talk. Would you like that?’

‘I should greatly enjoy it.’

‘Come then. We’ll slip away.’

He made a way through the press of people and I was delighted to be in the fresh air, for fortunately it was a mild evening. The gardens were very beautiful, and I thought the sound of the river washing the stone steps at the water’s edge gave a soothing charm to the scene.

He found the seat. It was in a kind of arbour facing the river, its trellis sheltering us from the breeze, and there we sat.

‘Tell me about the country,’ he said. So I told him about my home and how because of Bersaba’s illness I had come to London.

He expressed his relief that she had recovered and asked if now I should be returning to the country, to which I replied that I should in due course.

He suggested that my sister would need a long convalescence after her illness. He was sure of this because he had had a friend who had the great good fortune to recover from the disease. He went on: ‘And, believe me, it is the greatest good fortune and rarely happens. My friend believed he had had one foot in the grave and regarded it as a miracle that he had been able to draw it out in time.’

I shivered and he asked if I were cold.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I was just wondering what life would be like without my sister.’

‘You are twins. Tell me, is she like you?’

‘So like that our mother is the only one who can tell us apart on every occasion.’

‘She looks like you, she speaks as you do. Tell me, does she think as you do?’

‘Ah, there is the difference, and that is great. She is much cleverer than I. She used to do my sums for me and write my essays. I did her needlework. That was about the only thing I could do better than she could. There, that tells you all you want to know about us.’

‘Not all, for I confess to a great curiosity.’

I don’t think I had been so happy since I had left home. I suddenly felt that the world was a new and exciting place. A miracle had happened and Bersaba had been snatched from the grave and she would in time be well and strong again; and here was I in London in this enchanting garden, talking to a man who was one of the King’s generals—an important man who seemed interested in me and admitted he wanted to know me better.

I should never have known him but for my frightening adventure. I should never have felt this elation because of Bersaba’s recovery if she had never been ill. So with every experience it seemed, however alarming at the time, came compensations.

I said, ‘We talk so much about me and my affairs. You do not talk of yours.’

‘Tell me what you wish to know.’

‘You are a soldier. You must have seen a great many adventures, perhaps abroad.’

‘Oh yes, I have seen service overseas. As soon as I had matriculated at Cambridge I knew I wanted to be a soldier. It is in fact a tradition in my family. My father sent me to the Low Countries to learn the art of war. Later I was fighting in Spain and then France.’

‘And at the moment, you are at peace.’

‘A soldier is always prepared for war.’

‘And you are going abroad for a while?’

‘Not until the need arises.’

‘So now you train your men and you keep yourself in readiness … Do you have a home in the country?’

‘It is outside the town. We have estates in the north which are managed by my younger brother. He did not go into the army. My home is Far Flamstead. It lies west of Hampton. But I have quarters in the town, naturally.’

‘As Gervaise has.’

‘He is connected with the Court, so it is necessary.’

‘And is yours an ancient manor?’

‘No, built last century, when so many such places were.’

‘And you go there whenever possible to enjoy the peace of the country?’

There was a sudden silence and I looked at him sharply. His features seemed to have set themselves into a mask as he said: ‘I do not get much opportunity. My duties keep me in the town.’

I remembered then that Sir Gervaise had said there was some story about him which he couldn’t remember and that the General had lost his wife.

I could not of course ask him questions on such a subject, but a great deal of the pleasure seemed to have evaporated. His easy manner had dropped from him; he had become secretive.

I talked about home and Castle Paling, although I was longing to hear about him, but he encouraged me to do this and expressed great interest in my background, which I believed was due to the fact that he did not want to talk about himself.

While we were talking we heard footsteps and a man and woman came by. They knew him evidently because the man addressed him by his name.

Luke Longridge and his sister Ella were presented to me and I thought they regarded me with some disapproval. I wondered for the first time whether I had committed some breach of etiquette by being discovered here in the gardens alone with a man.

They were much less elaborately dressed than most of the company and there seemed to be a rather disapproving attitude about the pair of them.

Luke Longridge said that he would like to share the seat with us and he and his sister sat down.

They talked of the flowers and the mildness of the night for a few moments and then Luke Longridge said that the King had seemed serene and quite unaware of the storm which was blowing up around him.

‘One would not expect His Majesty to be aught else on such an occasion,’ commented the General.

‘The Queen is frivolous as ever,’ went on Luke Longridge. ‘I declare she does not appear to have a thought above dancing and light conversation, except, that is, to introduce her hated religion to the country. That she will never do.’

‘Indeed she will not,’ said the General.

Ella Longridge replied vehemently, ‘There will be plenty to see that she does not.’

‘His Majesty would never allow it to happen. He knows the will of the people,’ replied the General.

‘Since Buckingham’s death—and thank God for it—the Queen has become his chief adviser,’ said Luke Longridge.

‘That is an exaggeration,’ retorted the General.

‘He has a doting fondness for her—after ignoring her for years and disliking his marriage he has now become an uxorious husband led by the nose, and who leads him … the frivolous Catholic Frenchwoman!’

‘The King is happy in his marriage which is fruitful,’ said the General. ‘And you will admit, my friend, that that is good for the country. It is not true to say that the King listens only to his wife. His Majesty has a great sense of duty.’

‘Is that why there is so much unrest in the country?’ demanded Luke Longridge. ‘It will not be endured, I promise you, General. There is murmuring throughout the land. The country is divided against itself, and by God, I know on which side I shall be … and it won’t be the King’s.’

‘You speak treason, Longridge. Have a care,’ said the General.

‘I speak what’s in my mind,’ answered Luke Longridge.

‘Be careful, Luke,’ said his sister.

I wanted to beg of the General to be careful too. I looked at him pleadingly, but he seemed unaware of me.

A passion burned in Luke Longridge. He cried suddenly: ‘I’d see an end to all this. It’ll come to it in time. A king to rule without a parliament …’

‘Luke, Luke!’ cried his sister.

I suddenly had a vision of the men I had seen in the pillory. A short while ago I had thought this was an enchanted night and now it had suddenly changed. I had been dreaming and I was awakening rudely to reality. Nothing was quite what it seemed. In that ballroom the debonair King and his fascinating wife were receiving the homage of subjects; they did not know some of their subjects such as the Longridges were murmuring against them. Or did they? What of the men in the pillory?

‘You have insulted the King,’ I heard General Tolworthy cry, ‘and the King’s army. I shall need satisfaction for this.’

‘You know full well I speak sound sense …’

‘I know full well you have insulted the King and his army. You may name the meeting-place.’

‘You will hear from me in due course.’ Luke Longridge bowed and walked towards the house, his sister clinging to his arm.

‘It is chill,’ said the General to me. ‘Allow me to escort you back to your friends.’

I stood my ground firmly.

‘What did it mean? You are surely not going to fight!’

‘He left me no alternative.’

‘But he merely expressed a point of view.’

‘Which was an insult to the Crown.’

‘But not a personal one.’

‘My dear Mistress Landor, I am one of the King’s generals. Any insult to His Majesty is indeed my affair.’

‘Does this mean there is to be a duel?’

‘Pray do not concern yourself. It is a fairly commonplace affair.’

‘Which could end in death for one of you!’

‘It may be, but perhaps not.’

‘But …’

‘Come, it grows chill.’

He would say no more and I could do nothing but allow him to lead me in.

He took me to Senara, who was in conversation with a group of people, then he bowed and departed.

I was glad when the evening was over and we were going home in the coach, and so relieved that no one was inclined for talk. I could not stop thinking of what seemed to me that most stupid quarrel which could well end in the death of one of those men.

I knew that if Richard Tolworthy were killed I should remember him for the rest of my life.

I passed a miserable two days. Richard Tolworthy would either be killed himself or kill the other man and I could see no satisfaction in that. How could he have challenged the other in such a senseless manner? Luke Longridge had insulted the King. Well, I thought angrily, let the King fight his own battles. But Richard was a soldier … a man of ideals. Of course he was right, I assured myself. I thought of Luke Longridge, whom I was beginning to hate because he had provoked this duel.

I asked Carlotta what happened if a man was injured in a duel.

‘Sometimes he dies. It depends how deeply he is wounded.’

‘And the other?’

‘He would probably flee the country. After all, it is murder.’

‘I see.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I just wanted to know. I am supposed to learn the manners and customs of the nobility, am I not?’

‘That’s a morbid one.’

‘I have noticed that many customs end in morbidity.’

‘Ah,’ she mocked, ‘you are becoming quite observant.’

I tried to put the matter from my mind and to tell myself how foolish I was to be involved with a man whom I had met only twice, though they had been two unusual occasions—one when he had saved me from a horrible fate and the other when he had challenged a man to a duel.

How I wished that Bersaba was with me so that I could tell her of my feelings. I wondered when my mother would suggest that I returned. She would need me to nurse Bersaba, to be with her perhaps. She had said in her letter that it would be a long time before she was herself again and had hinted that the disease was still in the village and that she did not want me to return until the neighbourhood was, as she called it, clean again.

I thought that if General Richard Tolworthy were killed or fled abroad I would like to go home without delay. Then I could put the whole London adventure behind me and look back on it as something rather unreal.

However, a week after the ball Richard Tolworthy called at the house.

By great good fortune Senara had gone to say goodbye to neighbours, for she was leaving the following week. Carlotta had accompanied her and Sir Gervaise was at Whitehall. The General was apparently making a conventional call on Sir Gervaise and when he was told that he was not at home he asked if I were.

As a result I was receiving him in the parlour which led from the hall, and floods of joy swept over me when I saw that he was neither maimed nor had the look of a fugitive.

‘I was hoping that I might have a word with you,’ he said, ‘because you were so concerned on the night of the ball.’

‘Indeed I was. I could not understand what had happened so suddenly and why it should be a matter of life and death.’

‘I had no alternative in the circumstances but to deliver the challenge. However, it was not taken up. I received an apology. The offending words were retracted and so we did not meet.’

‘I am so pleased. It was wise of him.’

‘He is a Puritan at heart and doesn’t believe in shedding blood.’

‘Then I think there is a great deal to be said for Puritanism.’

He smiled at me. ‘You were really anxious, I know.’

‘Oh, I was. I thought you would be killed or perhaps kill him and have to go into exile.’

‘I am grateful for your concern.’

‘But of course I’m concerned. Didn’t you save me!’

‘That was nothing.’

I just could not help showing my relief and I think he was very pleased.

He talked for some time, asking me more questions about my home. He wanted to know how long I was staying in London and when I told him that I might be leaving at any time and that it would depend on my sister’s health and when the plague vanished from the neighbourhood, he listened very intently.

Then he said: ‘I hope you will stay a long while. Or do you get a little homesick?’

‘I was at first. Now … I am not sure. There is so much of interest here.’

‘Encounters with beggars, duels?’ he suggested.

‘And meeting interesting people,’ I told him.

‘There must be interesting people whom you meet in your home.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘but … different.’

And I thought then: I have never met anyone like you. I knew then that as long as I lived I never would.

When he left he took my hand in his and kissed it.

He said: ‘I shall call again.’

I watched him ride away, and then I went up to my room because I wanted to be alone to think about him. If I had to return to Cornwall now, how should I feel? I should be wretched. Wretched to go to my beloved home, to see my dearest mother and the sister who was part of myself! What had happened to me?

I half suspected that, in my impulsive thoughtless way, I was in love with Richard Tolworthy.

The weeks slipped quickly by. Senara left and I was sad to say goodbye to her, for I felt I had lost a friend. True to his promise, General Tolworthy called on us. Sir Gervaise could not understand at first. ‘General Tolworthy seems to have become very friendly towards me suddenly,’ was his comment. We were invited to functions where we met him and we had many conversations together.

Carlotta thought he had conceived a passion for her which, being the man he was, he would keep secret. She made much of him and consequently she frequently invited him to the house. I was rather amused because deep in my heart I knew that it was not Carlotta who interested him. There was something inherently serious about him—almost secretive; but there was a rapport between us; we did not have to speak much; he did not even have to single me out particularly, but I knew in my heart that I was the one he came to see.

Now I was afraid that my mother would say I must return, and I had visions of slipping out of his life and I wondered whether he would let me go. Much as I longed to see my family, I could not endure the thought of leaving him.

‘My dearest Angelet,’ she wrote.

‘First let me tell you that your sister is improving, though she has a long way to go. I can tell you now that she has come very near to death. She is so weak still that she must keep to her bed. She sends her dearest love to you, my darling, but is too weak to take up her pen to write to you herself. You may be sure that when she is strong enough she will do so.

My aim is to nurse her back to her former strength. The physicians tell me that will take months and that it is little short of a miracle that we have her with us. I want you, my daughter, to endure this long separation as best you can. I would not have you here just yet and if you can assure me that you are well and happy I will content myself and look forward to your return as we all do …’

I read that letter over and over again. It filled me with joy. I was pleasing my mother by staying and I knew now that more than seeing my sister, more than being with my mother, I wanted to be here, where each day I awoke with the thought: It could happen today.

I meant that General Tolworthy might that day ask me to be his wife.

Winter had come. I had never before spent a Christmas away from home. My mother had written to me sending me silk to make a gown and telling me not to be too unhappy because I should not be with them this year. The festivities at Trystan would be less merry than usual, for Bersaba was so easily tired and must spend several hours each day on her bed.

The mummers would come, she doubted not, and there would be the carol singers; Aunt Melanie and Uncle Connell had insisted on coming to be with them, but my father, Fennimore and Bastian would not be there, so a great deal of usual activities would not take place.

‘Next Christmas,’ wrote my mother, ‘I trust we shall all be together.’

So Christmas was celebrated at Pondersby Hall, and although we did have a lord of misrule, it was far less simple than our Christmases at home. For instance, there was a masque where we did a Spanish play which Carlotta managed for us and in which we all had to play a part. We rehearsed for two weeks before Christmas and we performed it both on Christmas Day and Twelfth Night. Carlotta, of course, was the central character and she acted with great skill and charm, and it was true that numbers of the young men regarded Sir Gervaise enviously and gazed at Carlotta with longing eyes. So it was not surprising that she counted Richard Tolworthy among her admirers.

He went away immediately after Christmas and weeks elapsed before I saw him again. I began to fret thinking that he had forgotten all about me.

January came and with it the snow. We had it so rarely in Cornwall that I could only remember seeing it three times. Then how excited we had been. We had pelted each other with snowballs and I remember that Bastian was there and had made Bersaba his special target.

Now it was different. We did not play at snowballs but we skated on the ponds and that was good fun, but all the time I was thinking of Richard and wondering if I should ever see him again.

It was a dark early February day when he rode over. The roads which had been impassable were clear again, and all that was left of the recent snow was mounds of it in the fields and against the hedgerows.

There was a great fire in the hall when he came in. I heard him asking the footman if Sir Gervaise was at home, and I went into the hall trying to look as though I had come down by chance.

I held out my hand to him and said as calmly as I could; ‘It is a long time since we have seen you, General.’

He replied that he had been in the north on business. Then Sir Gervaise appeared and I hung back while he was conducted to the parlour. Sir Gervaise ordered that Carlotta be told that we had a visitor.

I went to my room. I did not want to see Carlotta paying him that very special attention she reserved for men, and I had come to the conclusion that I had allowed myself to imagine what I wanted to believe and that Richard Tolworthy had no more interest in me than he would in any young girl whom he had rescued from a pair of ruffians, and who had shown some concern because she had heard him challenge someone to a duel.

I combed my hair, patting it into shape, hoping that he would ask to see me, but he didn’t.

A few days later he called again. This time I was alone and he asked if I would see him and I received him in the parlour.

‘I have to confess a little duplicity,’ he told me. ‘I learned that Sir Gervaise and his lady would not be at home today. So I called in the hope that you would be.’

‘You … wanted to see me then?’

I felt as though the sun had suddenly burst forth and was shining more brilliantly than it did in the summer and that the entire universe was singing with joy.

‘I wanted to talk to you rather specially.’

‘Yes?’ I asked breathlessly.

‘Pray sit down,’ he said. I sat on the window-seat and folded my hands in my lap. I dared not look at him in case I should betray my feelings.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that we have become good friends. Do you agree?’

‘Oh, I do. Indeed I do.’

‘You exaggerated what I did on my first meeting. It was no more than any man would have done.’

‘I shall never forget that you risked your life for me.’

‘Oh, you must look at life rationally. Villains like that are always cowards. They attack women and children. Moreover, I was armed and I assure you I ran no risk. But what I was saying was that we have become friends. I have hesitated over this and perhaps I should have been wise to hesitate still further. You are very young, Angelet. I may use your christian name?’

‘Please do. I like you to.’

‘It is a charming name and may I say it suits you.’

‘Oh, please, you must not have too good an opinion of me. I shall never live up to it …’

I stopped short. I had made it sound as though we would be together. I was blushing hotly.

He ignored my outburst and said: ‘How old are you, Angelet?’

‘I shall be eighteen in June.’

He sighed. ‘That is very young. Do you know how old I am?’

‘I hadn’t thought of age in connection with you.’

‘What a charming thing to say! It is good, too, because I am considerably older than you are. I shall be thirty-four years of age in September. You see, there is a great difference in our ages.’

‘Does that matter with … friends?’

‘It is a question I have been asking myself these last weeks. Perhaps I should not have spoken to you yet.’

‘I am sure it is always better to say what is in one’s mind.’

‘I have made up mine to ask you to marry me.’

‘Oh!’ I could say no more. I felt my whole body tingling with delight. It had really happened then. I had not been wrong. I said to myself: Oh Bersaba, I am going to be married. Think of it. I am going to be married to a general in the King’s Army, the most wonderful, most gallant man in the world.

Bersaba had once said: ‘I wonder which of us will marry first?’ and Bersaba had wanted to be the first. She always wanted to be the first in everything and somehow I had wanted her to, for it had seemed her right.

But this was different. More than anything I wanted to marry Richard Tolworthy.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you are startled. You are wondering how I, who am so old, can dare suggest such a thing to you, who are not yet eighteen. That’s what you mean, is it not?’

I laughed—strange rather hysterical laughter it sounded. I could never be clever as Bersaba was and I tried fleetingly to imagine what she would say in these circumstances. But what was the use? I was myself, not Bersaba, and I had never been able to say anything but that which first came into my head.

‘I mean nothing of the sort,’ I cried. ‘I mean only that I am so happy that you asked me. I have been so immodest. I thought perhaps you were interested in me and I let myself dream that you wanted to marry me and … I just could not have borne it if you hadn’t.’

He came towards me then and I stood up. I expected him to take me into his arms and hold me tightly. But he did not. He took my hand and kissed it as he might have done if we had just been introduced at a ball.

‘You are a dear child,’ he said, ‘but impetuous. Can you really mean this?’

‘With all my heart,’ I said.

He pushed me back gently on to the window-seat and went and sat in a chair some distance from me.

‘You must not make a hasty decision, my dear.’

‘I don’t understand you. Were you hoping I would say no?’

He smiled at me. ‘I asked you because I hoped you would say yes. But you are young.’

‘That,’ I said rather tritely, ‘will in due course be remedied.’

‘But as you grow older so shall I. You must listen to what I have to say very carefully. When you are twenty-four years of age I shall be forty. Think of that.’

‘It seems good arithmetic to me,’ I was growing frivolous in my happiness.

‘Now let me talk to you very seriously, Have you thought very much about marrying?’

‘Only vaguely. My sister and I used to talk about it sometimes. We used to wonder whom we would marry and who would marry first. You see, being twins we have always done everything together. There were so few eligible people surrounding us, and we guessed we would marry two of the young men of the neighbourhood,’

‘And you came to London and met me.’

‘And how glad I am! I was never more glad of anything in my life.’

‘You are at the beginning of your life, my dear. Let us remember that, I must make you see what life would be like if you married me. You have been here in this house and you have been to one or two balls and masques and there is no doubt that you have found life here a little more exciting than that in your country house. That’s true, I believe.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘but not because of the balls and masques.’

‘I am glad of that,’ he said. ‘I lead a quieter life.’

‘I shall be happy to share it.’

‘You have a good sweet nature and I believe you will make me very happy … if this marriage should take place.’

‘But it is going to take place. You have asked me and I have accepted. If we both want it it must take place, must it not?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘if we both want it and there is no objection from your family.’

‘My parents would want me to be happy. They always have.’

‘Then I shall ask their consent, I shall speak to Sir Gervaise, who is your temporary guardian, and ask him to recommend me to your parents.’

I clasped my hands blissfully.

‘But first,’ he went on, ‘I want you to be absolutely sure what this means.’

‘I know that I want to be with you more than anything.’ I spoke fervently and the truth of what I said astonished me. Truly I loved this man.

‘I have pointed out to you the disparity in our ages.’

‘Which I accept and rejoice in. Do you think I want a young man with breeches like bellows tied up with fancy ribbons?’

He smiled. I noticed then that he rarely laughed and sometimes it was as though he smiled in spite of himself. He was a very serious man, this one I loved. I thought: I shall change that. I’ll make him so happy that he will laugh all the time.

‘There are certain things you must know about me. I have been already married.’

‘Did she die?’ I asked.

‘She died,’ he answered.

‘And it was very sad, I suppose.’

‘Yes, it was very sad.’

‘Then please don’t talk about it if it distresses you.’

‘I think you should know of it.’

‘Was it long ago?’

‘Ten years,’ he said.

‘But that is a very long time.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it has seemed a very long time.’

‘And did you never want to marry anyone until now?’

He hesitated. Then he said, ‘I thought of it once … but decided against it.’

‘So you weren’t really in love.’

‘I thought it might be unwise.’

I got up and, going to him, stood behind him and placing my hands on his shoulders, laid my face against his head.

‘And you do not think it unwise now?’

‘I think this could perhaps be the right thing for me. I have to consider whether it would be right for you.’

‘No,’ I cried vehemently, ‘that is for me to say.’

He took my hand from his shoulder and pressed his lips to it.

‘As you see, Angelet, I am not a very merry man.’

‘No, you are serious. I like that. You are the King’s general. You have a high position in his army.’

‘Which takes me away from home frequently. Would you like that?’

‘I should not like you to be away from me but I would accept it.’

‘Then life is rather quiet in Far Flamstead. It is different from here. I do not entertain there very much. I never have. In fact I am not the most sociable of men.’

‘I am not very good at balls and banquets.’

‘We should have to attend them occasionally. Sometimes we should have to be at Whitehall.’

‘Then I should enjoy that because it was not often.’

‘You are determined to find everything to your liking.’

‘I believe that is how it is when one is in love.’

‘Oh Angelet,’ he said, ‘I can’t do this. You are too young. You have had no experience of living.’

‘You will give me my experience. Is that not what a husband should do?’

‘I am afraid,’ he said.

‘Please do not be afraid that I will not be suitable.’

‘I am afraid that I am the one who will fail you.’

‘This must be the strangest proposal ever made,’ I said. ‘You ask me to marry you and then you proceed to tell me why I shouldn’t.’

‘All I want is for you to be sure and not to discover that you have made a terrible mistake.’

‘I am sure,’ I cried. ‘I am. I am.’

Then he stood up and he held me in his arms. I had never been embraced by a man before so I had no way of judging it.

I thought he was very tender and I knew that I was going to be very happy.

He called next day and asked to see Gervaise. They were together for some time, during which I waited in a fever of impatience. I knew that all would be well because the decision would rest with my parents, and I was sure that if I told my mother I loved this man and could never be happy without him, she would surely give her consent. Then I supposed I would have to wait for my father’s, but that need not be so, for he would sanction anything of which she approved and she knew it.

Gervaise sent for me and when I went in Richard was with him.

I could see that Gervaise was a little disturbed, for I had come to know that he was a man who felt he had a duty towards me and would regard that duty with the utmost seriousness.

‘You know, my dear,’ he said, ‘that General Tolworthy is asking for your hand in marriage. I believe you have accepted his proposal.’

‘Yes,’ I said warmly and happily, ‘I have,’

‘Then,’ said Sir Gervaise, ‘I will write at once to your mother, and you perhaps should do the same, as the General will, and the letters can be despatched today.’

‘I understand Angelet’s father is on the high seas,’ said Richard.

‘He often is,’ I cried, ‘and we never know when he will be home. My mother will speak for them both.’

Richard looked askance at Gervaise, who said: ‘I believe that could be so. Let us all write our letters and they can then be despatched without delay.’

I went to my room, my head whirling with delight. I wrote to both my mother and my sister, and I knew that they would read the happiness in my letters. When I tried to describe him it was difficult. I could not say he was like this or that one, for there was simply no one like him. He was different from all other men. He was important. He was a general in the King’s army. He was a friend of the King’s and the Queen’s and he would defend them with his life. He was serious. They need not think he was a frivolous man of the town. No, he was a steady clever soldier, and his great concern was that he should make me happy.

I knew my mother would never be able to withhold her consent when she read my letter.

Carlotta was piqued when she heard the news.

‘I simply do not believe it,’ was her first comment. And afterwards: ‘I always thought there was something strange about Richard Tolworthy.’

‘There was a time when you thought him rather attractive,’ I pointed out, and added maliciously: ‘That was when you thought he preferred you.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘In any case you’re far too young for marriage.’

‘I shall be eighteen.’

‘You are immature for your age,’ she told me, and walked out of the room.

Yes, she was very angry.

Ana whispered to me: ‘She is angry because she does not like any but herself to be preferred.’

Mab said the same and I knew that they were right.

Richard left on duty and said that he would be away for a week or so and as soon as he was free to do so he would call on us.

Meanwhile we waited and I lived in a dream. I did not look into the future. I could not because I found it very hard to imagine what it would be like. There was a house, Far Flamstead, which I had not seen and which Richard had not described very clearly. He was not good at descriptions, I thought fondly. I knew its whereabouts roughly but he had never suggested taking me there, which was perhaps rather strange, but I had a notion that he wanted to wait for my family’s consent before he regarded us as betrothed.

It seemed a long time before the letters came.

‘My dearest Angelet,’ wrote my mother,

‘I was surprised to hear the news and your happiness came through to me. I wish it were possible for us to come to London, but that is quite out of the question. Bersaba is not yet strong enough to travel. My dear child, I understand how you are feeling. This is a wonderful thing that has happened to you. Sir Gervaise has written to me and so has General Tolworthy. He sounds a very serious man and eager to care for you. And you are truly in love with him. You could not disguise your true feelings from me if you tried.

I wish your father were here, but you know we can never be sure when he will return, and Fennimore is not even here either. I know that you do not want to wait. I have experienced this myself when I was your age, so I am writing to General Tolworthy and to Sir Gervaise and telling them that they have your family’s consent to your marriage.

Oh my dearest, how different it is from what I imagined! I had planned that you should be married in this house and naturally I thought it would be someone hereabouts and that you would live near to me and Trystan Priory. But this is clearly what you want and I know how unhappy you would be if I withheld my consent.

So, my dear, be happy. You may become betrothed. Perhaps you could come down here to be married. I wonder if that is possible?

Bersaba is writing to you. It will be but a short note. There is a great change in your sister, but she is gradually though slowly regaining her strength.

I hope to hear from you soon, my darling.

My dearest love as ever,

Mother.’

I kissed the letter. How like her. So calm, so reasonable. It was not what she had planned. Of course it wasn’t. Who would have believed Bersaba would have fallen ill and I should come to London and find my husband there. But she accepted it. It was life, and she remembered the time when she and my father were young and how dearly she had loved him!

And from Bersaba:

‘Dear Angelet,

So you are to be married. Fancy! I always thought we’d be married together. I hope you will be happy.

You will see a great change in me when we meet. I have been so ill, as you know, but you can’t know what a change there is in me. I have to rest a great deal, and there are you going to balls and meeting interesting people, and now you are going to be married. I want to see you, Angelet, so much. There is such a lot I want to say. I can’t write more now because I am so tired and they are waiting to take the letters.

Do come home and bring your future husband. I long to see you both.

Your loving twin, Bersaba.’

It was the first letter she had written to me in her life because we had always been together and she had been too weak to write before.

Try as I might I could not imagine her languid in her bed, she who had always been so vital in her somewhat secret way.

But I confess I was too excited to think very much about my home. My future was here.

Richard rode over and was closeted with Sir Gervaise, and after a while he came to the parlour, where I was waiting for him.

‘This is good news,’ he said. ‘We have your mother’s consent and she assures us that she speaks for your father. There is nothing now to prevent our betrothal.’

He took my left hand and put a ring on the third finger. It was a strange ring—a twist of gold very elaborately engraved, with a square-cut emerald set in it.

It seemed to fit me perfectly.

‘A good omen,’ he said. ‘It’s the family ring, always worn by the brides of the eldest son.’

I admired it. It was certainly unusual.

Then he kissed me very solemnly.

He supped with us, and he and Sir Gervaise talked at length about the insurrection in Scotland and the covenant the Scots had entered into which was against the government.

‘There could be trouble there,’ said Richard, ‘and we have to be ready to meet it.’

‘There is a great deal of unease everywhere,’ admitted Sir Gervaise. ‘What do you think will be the outcome?’

‘I can’t say, of course, but if this trouble goes on I should be prepared for … just anything.’

Sir Gervaise nodded gravely.

Carlotta clearly found this conversation boring and changed it to matters more agreeable to herself, which was the affairs of people she knew and what entertainments were planned in the future, which Richard—I was gleefully aware—found as trivial as she found his interests dull. I wondered how she could ever have thought that he was interested in her. I wanted him to know that I would be happy to learn the serious side of the country’s affairs and would listen enraptured while he talked to me of the hazards of government.

After Richard had left I retired to my room and I had not been there very long when there was a knock on my door and Carlotta entered.

She threw herself on to my bed and looked at me quizzically.

‘What a bore!’ she cried. ‘I fancy you are not going to have a very lively life with the brave General.’

‘It is the life I have chosen.’

‘My dear girl, you can hardly call it a choice. There was no one else to choose from, was there?’

‘I didn’t need anyone else.’

‘Your first proposal and you accepted. I can’t tell you how many I had before I took Gervaise.’

‘I knew of my cousin Bastian, of course.’

‘Oh, that was never serious.’

‘It was to him.’

‘A country boy! He just did not understand. That could hardly be called my fault.’

‘I should call it that.’

‘Oh dear, you are giving yourself airs. It doesn’t become you, Angelet. You got your General by that little girl manner … someone whom he can mould. I can see his thinking that he’ll train you like a recruit in his army to go weak at the knees every time the General appears. Don’t you think you should consider a little and not rush into this?’

‘I have considered.’

‘Now that my mother has left I feel responsible for you.’

‘You surprise me.’

‘You are after all a guest in my house.’

‘I feel that Sir Gervaise is my host.’

‘You have a hostess too, my dear, and you only knew Gervaise when he came briefly to Cornwall, but you and I are a kind of cousin, aren’t we? Not blood relations but … my mother and your mother brought up as sisters. So I feel I can talk to you as poor Gervaise couldn’t.’

‘I feel complete confidence in poor Gervaise.’

‘And you say poor in that way, implying that he is so because he is married to me. Let me tell you, my dear Angelet, Gervaise is very content with his marriage. There is more to the condition, you should know, than being polite in company. In some respects—and I fancy you know little about this—I am very satisfactory indeed.’

I had a notion of what she was referring to. There was another side to marriage and it was true I had never experienced it, though I knew of its existence. I had seen lovers at home, secret meetings in secret places. Fumbling embraces … and such like.

I had to admit she had made me apprehensive, for she was right that I had no conception of what that would mean and she was implying that Sir Gervaise and she were in tune in this rather special way.

She was fully aware that she had aroused my uneasiness and this gave her some pleasure.

‘Let me see the ring,’ she said.

I held out my hand and she slipped it from my finger.

‘It has an engraved T inside, I see.’

‘It has been worn by the brides of the eldest son through the ages.’

‘Do you care to wear a ring that has been worn by so many before you?’

‘It’s a tradition,’ I said.

She stared down at the ring in the palm of her hand.

‘So it was worn by your predecessor,’ she said slowly. ‘It must have been taken from her finger when she was dead.’

She handed me back the ring with a smile.

‘Good night,’ she said. And she added: ‘And good luck.’ The implication was that I might need it.

After she had gone I sat in my chair, staring at the ring in the palm of my hand. I was picturing a woman in her coffin and Richard leaning over her to take off the ring.

It was an unpleasant image and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. So much so that it haunted my dreams in a vague intangible way and I woke up in the darkness trembling. I think I had thought that I was lying in my coffin and Richard was saying, ‘All right. We mustn’t forget the ring. I shall need that for the next one.’

I found it difficult to sleep after that.

The betrothal had taken place at the beginning of April and then the preparations began, for the wedding was to be in May.

‘A month or so before your eighteenth birthday,’ said Richard.

I couldn’t help remembering my last birthday when we had been out in the fields near Trystan Priory. I mustn’t forget it was Bersaba’s birthday too. It was then that our mother had said, ‘Next birthday will be different. There will be parties and such like.’ And she had given us our journals to write and I had started immediately. Bersaba had said she would only write in hers when she had something important to write about. Poor dear Bersaba! She would have something to write about now. What a lot had happened in a short year! There could not be a better example of the truism that life was made up of light and shadow. The tragedy of Bersaba’s sickness; the joy of my marriage. I embroidered a bag for her which I would send for her birthday. It was exquisite and I had put a good deal of work in it. She would love it for that reason because she would know that with my approaching wedding I should have so much to do and yet I still set time aside for her.

The sudden April showers and brief sunshine were giving way to more settled weather, May was a beautiful month that year—more so than usual, I was sure. The scent of the hawthorn hung heavy in the air and I thought it intoxicating, but perhaps it was my happiness after all. Ana was working hard for me. Carlotta had graciously allowed her to do so. Poor Mab was not very good. She was in a twitter of excitement about the coming marriage and thought herself to be so lucky to have been chosen to come to London with me, where so many exciting things could happen.

We went frequently into the city to buy what was needed. I began to enjoy these jaunts and forgot the unpleasantness I had experienced there. I was never foolish enough to leave whoever I was with and I did avert my eyes when I saw a pillory, but I never saw that grim spectacle again.

There seemed always to be something going on. I saw people dance round the maypole on May Day and crown the May Queen; I saw lovers embracing in the fields on sunny afternoons; I heard their laughter as they shouted to each other—apprentices and serving girls. I saw them on the river and arm-in-arm in the streets. I watched the travelling pedlars—and they often came to Pondersby Hall and spread their packs for us to see—calling their wares as they went through the streets. I listened to the chat between them and their customers. I would watch the corn-cutter, who in addition to dealing with painful feet could pull out a troublesome tooth, and this usually attracted a crowd to watch the anguish of the poor victim. There were jugglers and fiddlers and often there would be cock-fighting in a corner of the street, a practice which filled me with disgust, but I never had to see the actual contest because so many crowded round to witness the so-called sport that I could not have looked in had I wanted to.

Then of course there were the shops—the object of our visits—and so much beautiful cloth to examine, so many ribbons to choose. Ana and I would spend hours in this fascinating occupation. She said it was all part of the preparations for marriage. Perhaps there should have been other preparations. If my mother had been with me or Bersaba, I could have talked to them. Perhaps I could have learned … But I should learn gradually, and Richard would be kind, respecting my ignorance.

But how I longed to talk to Bersaba.

The time was passing. It would soon be my wedding day.

I saw little of Richard. He was with his company, he told us. The Scottish unrest was occupying much of his time. There could be trouble with these Covenanters.

It seemed plausible enough when he explained to me. ‘You see, the Covenant has always been important to Scotland. It was started nearly a hundred years ago when the Scots feared a revival of Popery. This year the King wished to introduce the English liturgy into Scotland and they have revived the Covenant.’

‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘that there has to be perpetual trouble over religion.’

‘It has always been so,’ he answered. ‘And this means, of course, that we have to be watchful of events on the Border. If there should be trouble I shall have to be ready.’

I understood that, though I was sorry that it meant he could not enjoy these exciting preparations with me.

Carlotta came to my room one evening. I wondered why she always chose the evenings, just before I was about to retire, for this sort of thing. I fancied her object was to disturb me because she resented my happiness, and I was becoming more and more convinced that she had taken up with Bastian because she had known that Bersaba and he were friendly. Of course that was just a childish friendship, but none the less important to them because of it.

There was a strain of evil in Carlotta, something that loved mischief. I began to wonder whether she was not after all a witch.

She sprawled in the chair and surveyed me.

‘We don’t see very much of our bridegroom,’ she said.

‘Mine, do you mean?’

‘The bridegroom, shall we say. I was wondering whether we can be so sure that he will be yours.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I have been thinking about this since I heard and I wondered whether I should warn you.’

‘Warn me? What about?’

‘I heard the story. It created quite a stir at the time. It was five years ago.’

‘What story?’

‘He was going to marry, you know, and changed his mind.’

I felt myself go cold with fear. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘Our Richard was married when he was quite young, and she died.’

‘You’re not suggesting …’

‘Suggesting what?’

‘That she … that he …’

‘That he despatched her? I never heard that. It’s an interesting idea. There is something odd about him. He’s a cold fish. I never could abide cold men.’

‘I thought you were rather interested in him at one time … when you thought he preferred you.’

‘I did think he was normal then—just a little quiet. But what I want to tell you is that he changed his mind before. He was betrothed, the arrangements were going ahead … just as now … and then a few weeks before the wedding … it was all off.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s the mystery. There was no wedding. Whether she discovered some dark secret or whether he decided to jilt her, we don’t know. It was all a great mystery. But I think you ought to be prepared.’

‘Thank you. It’s kind of you to be so considerate.’

‘Well, it would be most awkward if it happened again, wouldn’t it?’

‘We want a quiet wedding.’

‘Of course. I think you’re wise … in the circumstances.’ She stood up and regarded me almost superciliously. ‘I just thought I ought to warn you.’

‘That’s so kind,’ I murmured.

And she was gone. Was it true? I wondered. No, it couldn’t be. He wanted this marriage. Why should he have suggested it otherwise? Carlotta was just piqued because he had preferred marriage with me to a flirtation with her. To be ignored was something she could not tolerate and she persisted in denigrating anyone who did that.

But I was uneasy, for I had to admit that the nearer I came to marriage the more did I realize that Richard was by no means the conventional bridegroom.

Mab was a little envious of Ana. She found fault with her needlework and grumbled that she could have done it so much better herself. She was disappointed because I did not make a confidante of her. Mab, I was coming to the conclusion, was really rather a silly girl. She was constantly trying to turn the conversation to babies.

‘Oh Mistress Angelet,’ she would murmur, ‘I can’t wait for the first little baby. I do hope you won’t have to wait so long as your poor mother did.’

Then she talked about her sister Emily who had had a child out of wedlock.

‘Emily was like that,’ she said. ‘She couldn’t leave the men alone and nor could they leave her. She got caught she did … caught good and proper. And me mother says that if she don’t take care she’ll have another to feed before long. I said to her once, “Em, you are silly. You’ll get caught again.” And she said that she couldn’t help it if she did. It was just her way. She couldn’t say no.’

Mab would look at me speculatively and I became angry with her, one of the main reasons being that I was so ignorant of that side of marriage and indeed a little fearful of it.

Richard returned and came at once to Pondersby Hall to see me.

I went down to the parlour. He took my hands and kissed them, and as soon as I saw him I was happy, for my doubts vanished and I realized how uneasy Carlotta had made me with her hints that I might be treated as someone else had been and the marriage cancelled at the last moment.

I said, ‘You still want to marry me, Richard, don’t you?’

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘Why on earth do you say that?’

I laid my face against his coat. ‘I don’t know. I’m just so happy I’m afraid it’s too good to be true.’

He lifted my face and looked at me intently.

‘You are a dear good child,’ he said. ‘It is small wonder that I love you.’

‘And we’ll be happy, won’t we?’

‘We must make sure that we are.’

‘I will make sure.’

‘Do you doubt that I will?’

‘No, no. Not when you are here.’

‘You must never doubt me … particularly when I am not there. You do understand, don’t you, that I shall be away from home for long periods?’

‘I do understand it. It was something my mother had to endure.’

‘So you are prepared for it?’

‘Yes, and … perhaps we shall have some children so that I shan’t be lonely.’

There was a silence, and looking up into his face I saw a strange expression there which I could not understand. But then he took my hand and gripped it hard.

‘It is what I want,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do want that very much.’

‘I hope … I shall please you,’ I said.

He put me from him suddenly, and going to the door, opened it abruptly.

Mab fell into the room.

I felt very angry with her, for she had clearly been listening at the keyhole.

‘What are you doing, Mab?’ I demanded.

She rose awkwardly to her feet and stood there not knowing what to do, and I saw that her eyes, which had been alight with curiosity a moment before, were now apprehensive.

I said: ‘Go away. I will speak to you later.’

She ran out, shutting the door after her. I looked at Richard in dismay, for I saw that he was very angry.

‘That girl will have to go,’ he said. ‘We will not have her at Far Flamstead.’

‘Go?’ I stammered.

‘Yes. Send her back to your home. I’ll not have her prying … listening at keyholes.’

‘She’s a silly girl. I’ll give her a good scolding and warn her.’

‘No, Angelet,’ he said sternly. ‘That is not enough. I will not have her in Far Flamstead. She is to be dismissed.’

‘She will be heartbroken. I know her well. She has been with my family since she was about eleven. My mother thought she was the most suitable one to send with me.’

‘She is most unsuitable and I will not have her in my house.’

‘It was just a moment’s folly, I know. She is a silly frivolous girl and so interested in us …’

He said: ‘Angelet, you will dismiss that girl. Let her go back when the next messengers come with letters.’

He was adamant. It was in the nature of a command, and although I knew it was rather harsh treatment for poor silly Mab, I knew I must do as he wished, for I greatly feared to displease him.

I said: ‘All right. She shall go, but it will be hard for her … and I have grown used to her. She was just beginning to know how to do my hair.’

He stroked my hair gently. ‘We will find you a maid who is better at it. Tell her that she must prepare to go at once.’

I said I would and tried to dismiss the matter. But it had made me uneasy. I wondered why he should have been so insistent about a rather trivial matter.

Then the thought flashed into my head. Listening at doors! Prying! It almost seemed as though he were afraid Mab might discover something.

Could it be that there was something to hide at Far Flamstead?

Poor Mab was indeed heartbroken. She sobbed bitterly when I told her she was to go back. At first she stared at me in astonishment.

‘But, Mistress Angelet, I’ve always been with you. You couldn’t send me away now.’

I said: ‘You’ll have to go back to what you were doing before I left. My mother will allow you to do that.’

‘But what have I done, mistress?’

I tried to whip myself to an anger which matched that of Richard.

‘You were caught listening at the keyhole. It was a foolish, wicked thing to do.’

‘I didn’t mean no harm. I just wanted to know that it was all right for you. He seems so … so …’

I shook her a little. ‘So, so what?’ I demanded.

‘He seemed so cold like … not like a husband. I was just worried about you and wanted to be sure …’

‘Don’t make excuses, Mab,’ I told her. ‘You were caught and now you must pay for your folly.’

I wanted so much to forgive her. To tell her not to be silly and not listen at doors again. That was what my mother would have done.

I even tried to speak to Richard again about it, but I saw his face harden when I mentioned her name, and I dared go no farther.

When the next batch of letters arrived I read them avidly and poor Mab left for Cornwall when the messengers returned there.

The Folly

SO ON THE TENTH of May of the year sixteen hundred and forty I was married to Richard Tolworthy. As he had wished—and so had I—it was a quiet wedding. Sir Gervaise gave me away, Carlotta attended, and it took place in the small church at Pondersby. Several of the servants sat at the back of the church and after the ceremony we went back to the Hall for a meal.

It was not elaborate, for Richard had insisted on this, and when it was over in the early afternoon he wanted us to set out for Far Flamstead.

It did occur to me that it was rather unusual that I should never have seen my new home, which was not after all so very far distant from Pondersby Hall. I had suggested that I should visit it and Richard had been in agreement, but looking back I now realized that always something had happened to prevent the visit.

At first he had said he was having a certain amount of renovation done for me and he did not wish me to see it in an unfinished state; and on the other occasion when I had been going, he had been called away and there was a postponement.

‘Never mind,’ he had said, ‘if there is something you don’t like you can alter it afterwards.’

I was beginning to see that my husband had a gift for making the unusual seem normal. It was something to do with the manner in which he dealt with it. I had learned through Mab that he did not like emotional scenes, and I was doing my best to be the sort of wife he wished me to be, which I suppose was a very good resolution to have made at the beginning of one’s married life.

It was early afternoon when we left Pondersby, and we took with us two grooms with saddle-horses containing certain things I should need. The rest of my baggage—the wardrobe I had been gathering together and which formed my trousseau—would arrive within the next few days.

Richard did not speak very much as we rode along, but I sensed in him a certain contentment, as though something which had caused him apprehension was now settled satisfactorily. I felt very tender towards him and I was happy because I knew that whatever awaited me in my new home, of one thing I was certain, and that was that I loved my husband.

As the afternoon wore on and we had left the familiar countryside behind us, the scenery seemed to change—but perhaps that was my mood; I noticed wild roses in the hedgerows, and the purple loosestrife growing by a stream reminded me of the days when Bersaba and I used to go out and pick armfuls of it.

We walked our horses, for the road was rough and stony, and my husband said to me: ‘How quiet you are, Angelet. It is not like you.’

‘It is a solemn occasion,’ I reminded him.

‘A happy one, I trust, for you.’

‘I have never been happier.’

‘Is there nothing more you would ask for?’

‘Oh yes. I should have liked to see my mother and my sister and for you to know them.’

‘As I shall in time, I trust.’

We had come to the village of Hampton, and we stopped there at an inn where Richard said we would refresh ourselves. We were immediately offered a private room and served with ale and partridge pie, which looked delicious, but I was not hungry and I don’t think Richard was either.

‘We are not far off now,’ he told me, and I wondered why if that were so we had stopped, and it suddenly occurred to me that he was in no hurry for us to reach our home.

It was evening when Far Flamstead came into sight.

‘There,’ said Richard. ‘Your home, my dear.’

I could only stare at it. It was large—larger than Pondersby Hall—red brick and E-shaped with its central part and east and west wings. I saw several outbuildings and the green sward all around it.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.

He was pleased.

‘I hope you will grow to love it. My brother lives in Flamstead Castle in Cumberland where my family have lived for generations. This was built later and we called it Far Flamstead because so many miles separated it from the old home.’

‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘So your younger brother took the castle and you Far Flamstead.’

‘As a soldier I needed to be in the south. It works very well.’

As we came nearer the house I noticed that it was surrounded by a shallow moat which was crossed by a bridge. Looking up, I saw how impressive was the central block; above the gateway was a window with eight-light windows—a sort of look-out, because from those windows one would be able to see a party approaching for some distance. I wondered if we had been watched. On either side of the central tower were the projecting octagonal towers of the east and west wings.

We passed through the gateway and were in a courtyard bounded on three sides by brick walls with two corner turrets.

As we entered the courtyard a man appeared. He bowed to us and Richard said, ‘This is Jesson. Jesson, your mistress.’

‘Welcome to Far Flamstead, my lady,’ said the man; he had a sharp clipped voice and there was something in his bearing which told me that he was an old soldier.

‘Are they prepared?’ asked Richard, dismounting and helping me to do the same.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Jesson. ‘We have been awaiting your arrival since late afternoon.’

Richard took me by the arm and we went through a door into a hall. The first thing I noticed were the people there, standing in a line waiting to receive us and give the traditional greeting of the household to the new mistress.

There were eight of them—not so many for such a large house, I supposed—three women, I noticed, and five men.

‘We have ridden far and are tired,’ said Richard, ‘but I must first present you to my wife.’ He turned to me. ‘Jesson you have already met. Mrs Cherry.’

A plump woman came forward and curtsied. I thought her name suited her, for she was somewhat rotund and her cheeks had the reddish tinge of a ripe cherry.

‘Mrs Cherry is the housekeeper, and Cherry her husband.’ A man came forward.

‘Cherry served with me at one time before he received a wound in his leg. He now serves me here at Far Flamstead.’

There were two women in their thirties. They were Meg and Grace Jesson, daughters of the man who had been in the courtyard.

The others were brought forward and presented to me, but I forgot their names. I could not help feeling that I was inspecting an army parade. It was faintly amusing.

‘Now,’ said Richard, ‘you have met them all. We will go to our rooms and then we will eat, for you must be hungry.’

I was very much aware of eight pairs of eyes studying me intently, which was natural. They must all have been agog with curiosity to see whom their master had married. They seemed relieved, I fancied, and that would no doubt be because of my youth.

The hall was lofty, some fifty feet in length with the hammer-beam kind of roof that was at Pondersby; the floor consisted of marble slabs; the walls were whitewashed, and an array of banners and trophies hung there with a suit of armour at either end. A large refectory table stood in the centre, and of the same oak were the companion benches on either side. Pewter implements had been placed on the table, and I was immediately aware of the high polish on tables and benches and how the armoury shone.

The servants had fallen back, their eyes following me as Richard led me along the hall to a staircase. We mounted this and came to a gallery, along which we passed, and mounting yet another staircase we came to what was to be our bedchamber.

I confess to a shiver of apprehension as I was led into this room and my eyes fell on the big four-poster bed; this was draped in crimson velvet and the counterpane was of the same coloured satin.

Richard shut the door and I was alone with him.

He took off my cape and threw it on the bed.

‘That which you will need tonight will have been brought by the pack-horses,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow the rest of your baggage will come.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I shall have adequate.’

He took me by the shoulders and turned my face up to his.

‘You tremble,’ he said. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘No … not really. I’m just hoping that I shall not disappoint you.’

‘You are such a very dear child,’ he said.

‘But I must stop being a child, must I not, now that I am your wife.’

‘You will always be yourself,’ he said, ‘and that is what I ask.’

I said: ‘The house is a little …’

‘Yes?’ he prompted.

‘Well, overpowering. So many menservants.’

‘That is because I am a soldier. They have all served with me at one time. The country is not very good to soldiers who can no longer be of use to it.’

‘So you brought them here?’

‘They are all men whom I can trust.’

‘There will only be four women in this house, then?’

‘Do you want more? You can choose either Meg or Grace Jesson for your personal maid. Give yourself a day or two to decide which.’

‘What are their duties now?’

‘I don’t know. Mrs Cherry and Cherry work that out. But you only have to ask for what you want, you know.’

‘Everything seems very well looked after.’

He smiled. ‘That is army training, I’ll swear. Now you would like to wash and we will eat. It has been a strange day for you.’

‘The only wedding day I ever had,’ I said lightly, and then wished I hadn’t, for my words might have reminded him that he had had two—and almost a third if Carlotta was right.

He left me for a while, and alone in the bedchamber I peered about me. It was a large room and contained a carved chest, a court cupboard, several chairs, a table on which stood a mirror and two heavy pewter candlesticks.

I tried to avert my eyes from the great four-poster bed, for I had to admit to myself that I was very uneasy about what would be expected of me. I felt so stupidly ignorant, but I supposed all I should have to do was submit. It seemed to me then that I heard Bersaba’s mocking laughter. How strange! But a room like this would make one imaginative. I couldn’t help thinking of all the husbands and wives who had slept here, and he of course would have shared that bed with his first wife.

I went to the deep bay window set in an embrasure. There was a window-seat with padded velvet cushions and heavy embroidered curtains which matched the bed-hangings. I knelt for a moment on the window-seat and looked out. Before me lay a green lawn, and not more than a hundred yards away, though largely hidden by a high wall, the crenellated towers of what looked like a miniature castle.

There was a knock on the door. It was one of the Jesson girls with hot water.

‘Master said to bring it, my lady,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Are you Grace?’

‘No, I’m Meg, my lady.’

‘Thank you, Meg.’

I washed my hands, and as I did so Grace came in with the light baggage I had brought with me, so I was able to change my riding-clothes for a gown, and when I had done this Richard appeared to conduct me to the meal which he said was waiting for us.

Together we went to the dining-room.

‘I shall lose myself here,’ I commented.

‘At first perhaps,’ he said. ‘But there will be plenty to show you the way.’

The dining-room was lofty with a beautiful carved ceiling. By now the candles had been lighted, although it was not yet quite dark. The walls were covered in tapestry with predominating blues and reds depicting the War of the Roses on one side and what Richard told me was the battle of Bosworth Field on the other. He said I might wish to do some tapestry myself as I was fond of needlework.

‘It will be something for you to do while I’m away,’ he added.

‘You will not go yet,’ I said fearfully, and tried to imagine myself alone in this big house with strangers.

‘I think not, but a soldier always has to be ready when the call comes.’

I felt it was a warning. Tomorrow when daylight comes it will all look different, I thought; and I suddenly thought of Trystan Priory where everything seemed suddenly homely.

Supper was served by Jesson and two menservants, which seemed strange because we always had girls to serve at home and so did they at Pondersby Hall. But I had to admit that everything was done with the greatest precision and efficiency.

There was cold duck and beef and mutton and venison, together with pies which I was not hungry enough to tackle. Richard urged me to take a little of the malmsey wine which was served in fine Venetian glasses, and as I drank I felt less apprehensive, and as the darkness fell and I smiled across the table at my husband, his face mellowed by the candlelight, I told myself I was going to be happy. I thought: it is all so strange and I am young and so inexperienced, and Trystan Priory, my mother and Bersaba seem so very far away.

The meal was over and I went back to our bedchamber. My nightgown had been laid out on the bed and I undressed and looked out of the window.

There was a half moon and it was a clear night as I stood there and saw again the towers of the miniature castle. It looked ghostly in moonlight, and if I hadn’t seen it by the light of day I should have thought it wasn’t quite real.

As I stood there I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders.

I swung round, alarmed. Richard was standing behind me.

‘I startled you,’ he said.

‘A little. What is the castle out there? Is it a castle? It looks like a toy one.’

‘That,’ he said, ‘is Flamstead Folly.’

‘What does that mean?’

He took my hand and stood beside me. ‘It means that an ancestor of mine—my great-grandfather—had it built.’

‘A little castle?’

‘He thought it would be amusing. It was going to be much bigger, but he found the building too costly, so he contented himself with a small one because he had vowed he would have a castle. It was called a folly because it was rather a foolish thing to do.’

‘I must explore it,’ I cried.

‘No, don’t. You see, a fairly high wall has been built around it. That’s because it’s not safe. It was not very securely built. One of these days I shall have to pull it down. But don’t go near it. You mustn’t. Promise me you won’t.’

‘Of course I’ll promise. You sound so … earnest.’

‘Well, I don’t want a ton of bricks to descend upon this defenceless head.’

‘I’m sorry. It looks … exciting.’

‘You must not go there. I insist. Promise me.’

‘I already have.’

‘Remember it, please.’

His face was stern as it had been when he had insisted on my getting rid of Mab.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘it’s cold here.’

He drew me towards the bed.

I awoke to sunshine and remembered where I was. I put out my hand and felt that I was alone.

I sat up in bed. The curtains about the bed were half drawn. I shivered with a sort of thankfulness because I had survived the night. I did not want to think about it. There was no one with whom I could discuss it. Perhaps I might have done so with Bersaba. I wondered whether I were pregnant. I should love to have a child. That was the side of marriage which I should enjoy, and the very fact that I expressed my feelings in that way was in itself an admission that there was another side which I did not enjoy.

I pulled the bell rope, which was the signal for Grace to bring my hot water. I washed and put on my riding-habit and went downstairs.

Richard was in the dining-room having breakfast. I found it difficult to look at him, I felt so embarrassed. But he rose and, putting his arms about me, kissed me.

‘Good morning, my dearest,’ he said warmly, and a little glow of happiness came to me.

Perhaps I had been all right after all, I thought, and my spirits rose.

‘I see you are dressed for riding,’ he said.

‘I have only my riding-habit and the gown I wore last night.’

‘Your things will be here today. Grace or Meg will unpack them for you. Today I am going to show you over the house, then you won’t lose yourself, and perhaps we will ride round the neighbourhood a little. Would you like that?’

‘I should love it.’ I was happy now, assuring myself that everything was going to be all right after all.

During the day I began to think I had worried unnecessarily, and I told myself that the night was a long way off and that Richard gave no sign that his affection for me had diminished.

He was very anxious to show me the house and this he did. There was no doubt that he loved the place. I followed him up the staircase lighted by small quatrefoil oeilets which he pointed out to me and showed me how the soffits formed a continuous spiral vault, which he said was quite unusual. Lovingly he stroked the moulded brick handrail and told me that a great deal of assiduous care had gone into the construction of this house. The castle in Cumberland had been originally built as a fortress and then added to over five centuries, but Far Flamstead had been built as a place for people to live in in comfort.

In the gallery were portraits of his ancestors. ‘I had some of them brought here from the castle,’ he told me. ‘You see from these that there has always been a strong military tradition in our family.’

He took me to the chapel with its linen-fold ended pews and barrel-vaulted ceiling; the wooden ribs of which were engraved with Tudor roses. It struck a chill into me, and as our footsteps echoed on the glazed tiles, a feeling of foreboding came over me and I felt a quick rush of nostalgia for the Priory and my family.

It was so insistent that for a few panic-stricken moments I would have been ready to run out of the house, leap on to a horse and gallop off in the direction of the south west.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Richard.

‘I don’t know. It’s so cold in here.’

‘Yes, and too dark.’

‘I have the feeling that a lot has happened here.’

‘A priest was murdered at the altar there. One of my ancestresses was a Catholic during Elizabeth’s reign. She had a priest here in secret. Her son discovered him at Mass and murdered him while he stood there with the chalice in his hands.’

‘How … terrible. You think he haunts the chapel … that priest—’

‘He died instantly. That was the end of him.’

‘Do you believe people come back to haunt a place where they have died violently?’

‘I believe that is nonsense. Just think of all the people who have died violently. The world would be full of ghosts.’

‘Perhaps it is.’

‘Oh come, my dear, you are fanciful. And you don’t like the chapel. We don’t have a resident priest now, and I don’t think the King could bring in laws against the Catholics since his wife is such an ardent one.’

‘But he is not so kind towards Puritans.’

‘Ah, that is another matter.’

‘It’s intolerance just the same.’

‘Of course it is. Do you give a lot of thought to these matters?’

‘Not really. Only when we were in Cornwall there were periodical outcries against witches.’

‘That persists not only in Cornwall but all over the country and through the ages.’

‘But if there is such a thing as witchcraft and people want to practise it, why should they not?’

‘It’s worship of the Devil, and witches are said to ill-wish and often bring about the deaths of those who offend them.’

‘There are good ones, I believe … white witches. They understand the properties of herbs and cure people with them. But they suffer often just the same.’

‘There will always be unfairness.’

‘And,’ I went on, ‘those who follow the Catholic faith or are Puritans harm no one.’

‘That’s true enough, but it seems to me these different sects all wish to impose their will on others and that’s where the conflict comes in.’

‘One day perhaps there will be a world where people allow each other to think as they wish.’

‘I see you are an idealist. Also that you have had enough of the chapel. Come, I shall take you now to the solarium … the warm room of the house. I imagine your sitting there on sunny afternoons with your needlework, for you are going to make a tapestry, I know, to hang on the walls and which will last for hundreds of years.’

‘I should like that.’

‘You will choose your subject. What will it be?’

‘Not war,’ I said. ‘There is too much war. I don’t like it.’

‘And you married a soldier!’

‘I think you are the kind of soldier who fights for the right.’

‘And I can see that you are going to be a loyal and loving wife.’

‘I shall do my best, but you will have to be patient with me. I know I have a great deal to learn of … er … marriage.’

‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘we both may have a good deal to learn.’

My spirits lifted in the solarium. It faced south and the sun streamed in through the great semi-circular bay window. The hangings were of deep blue with gold fringe and the window-seats had cushions of the same rich colour. The ceiling was most beautiful, delicately decorated and adorned with pictures of two cherubs floating on a cloud carrying between them the family crest. It was full of light and colour and a complete contrast to the cold dank chapel.

Tapestry hung on one side of the wall … and here again the subject was battle—that of Hastings this time. Richard told me that it was the family’s proud boast that they had come to England with the Conqueror.

From the solarium to the King’s Chamber, so called because the King himself had spent a night there. The brick fireplace had been put in specially for him. With loving care Richard pointed out the four-centred chamfered arch and jambs and the beautiful carving round the sides. The King had given his permission for the royal arms to be placed over the door.

‘Do you think he will come again?’ I asked.

‘It’s not unlikely.’

I tried to picture myself as hostess to the King and Queen, and failed.

‘The King’s manners are impeccable,’ said Richard. ‘He would always be charming, so you would need to have no fear if he did. But he is too concerned now with State matters to come visiting.’ Then he turned to me and drawing me to him, kissed my forehead tenderly. ‘You disturb yourself unnecessarily, Angelet,’ he told me. ‘You believe you will be inadequate. Let me tell you this … in a short while you will be asking yourself what there was to fear.’

I knew that he was telling me that everything would be well between us, and I was suddenly as happy as I had been when he first asked me to marry him and marriage seemed to me to be the most romantic adventure in the world.

I was almost blithe as I was conducted through the house. I was shown bedrooms so numerous that I lost count of them. Many of them were named after the colours predominating in them—the Scarlet Room, the Blue Room, the Gold Room, the Silver Room, the Grey Room, and so on. Then there were the Panelled Room and the Tapestry Room and the Pages’ Room, where china of all kinds was kept.

There was one door which Richard passed by and I asked what it was.

‘Oh, just like all the others,’ he said. ‘There is really nothing special about it.’

He opened the door and it seemed to me that he did so almost reluctantly, and because of that I felt a great urge to see what the room contained.

He was right, there was nothing special about it. It contained a table and a few chairs and a very large court cupboard with linen-fold sides.

‘What do you call this room?’ I asked.

‘I think it has been known as the Castle Room.’

‘Oh, I see why. You get a good view of the Folly here.’

I went to the window and stood there. He was beside me and I sensed his apprehension. I knew then that he had not been going to show me this room. The same sort of uneasiness which had enveloped me in the chapel returned to me. From the window there was a better view of the castle than I had seen anywhere else. The walls looked almost white in the sunshine. It was indeed a high wall which surrounded it, and of course this room would be called the Castle Room because it was high up and gave a good view of the miniature battlements.

‘It was a pity that high wall was built,’ I said. ‘It looks not so old as the castle.’

‘How observant you are. How can you tell?’

‘It just looks newer. When was it built?’

He hesitated. ‘Oh … er … about ten years ago.’

‘Then you built it!’

‘Yes, I ordered it to be built.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Perhaps I wanted to shut out the Folly.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to pull it down … particularly as it’s crumbling and you don’t like it.’

‘Did I say I didn’t like it?’

‘You implied it … calling it a folly and all that.’

‘It was not I who called it a folly. It was called that before I was born.’

‘I suppose you didn’t like to pull down what your ancestor had taken such pains to build, so you had the wall made to shut it out to a certain extent and prevent people’s going there as it might be dangerous.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s so.’ Then deliberately he turned me away from the window.

He had a rather curt way of conveying that he wished a subject closed and I was learning to take his hints. My husband was a man who expected unquestioning obedience. As a commanding soldier I supposed that was natural.

I began to examine the room. I said: ‘It has a lived-in look.’

‘A lived-in look! What do you mean by that? It’s rarely used.’

‘Then I’m wrong. What is kept in the court cupboard?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Shall we see?’

‘Oh come, there are more interesting things to look at. I want to take you up to the roof.’

‘The roof. That sounds exciting.’

He shut the door of the Castle Room firmly and led me to the newel stairs. The air was warm yet fresh. I stood up there, breathing it in with relish. I could see over the gardens to the wooded hills and beyond a house in the distance. I examined the detailed ornamentation of the turrets and looked for the Folly, but I could not see it from this side of the house.

On the way down we passed through the long gallery and I paused to examine the portraits. There was a fine one of Richard himself and next to him the portrait of a young woman. I knew without asking that she was his first wife, and I could not help a great curiosity. She was pretty and very young, even younger than I was. Her pretty fair hair was dressed high above her head which made her face look small; she had large appealing blue eyes. There was an expression in her face which fascinated me. It was almost as though she were pleading to be helped, as though she were afraid of something.

Richard said: ‘Yes, that’s Magdalen.’

‘Magdalen,’ I repeated.

‘My first wife.’

‘Was she very young when she died?’

‘Nineteen.’

I had the same uneasy feeling that had assailed me before. I suppose I couldn’t help imagining that girl with him and I knew I should go on doing so.

‘Was she very ill?’

‘She died in childbirth.’

‘So there was a child.’

‘It was a double tragedy.’

Again that secret command: We shall not talk of this.

Well, I thought, I understand that. After that he led me down to the outhouses and I saw what a fine stable he kept. He showed me the bolting-house, the washing-house and the winery, and I was aware that I had become mistress of a fine establishment.

I said: ‘I shall write and tell my sister and my mother all about my new home.’

‘You must do that,’ he said.

‘And when my sister is well they must come and visit me.’

‘Indeed they must,’ he answered warmly, and I was happy contemplating their arrival.

‘How proud I shall be to show them everything,’ I said.

He pressed my arm, well pleased.

That afternoon we went riding, for he wished to show me the countryside. He did not have a large estate, as the family land was in Cumberland and Far Flamstead was merely a soldier’s country house. The grounds were extensive enough, consisting of the gardens, the paddocks and the copse of fir trees.

We supped together as we had on the previous night and as before we shared the velvet-curtained bed.

For two weeks we lived to a sort of pattern. Each morning he worked in the library and I was left to myself, when I would wander through the gardens, which consisted of ten acres, so there was plenty for me to see. There was a walled rose garden and a pond garden, a kitchen garden and a herb garden. I wrote letters to my mother and to Bersaba—telling the former the details of the flowers we grew here and how the colder drier climate seemed to affect certain things. It was easy writing to her. It was less so writing to Bersaba. I used to think often of her lying in bed, where she still had to spend a certain amount of time, regaining her strength, my mother called it, so I was afraid to write too glowingly of my happiness, which was certainly there, but it is the nature of happiness to be elusive. I had discovered that it stayed usually for a few fleeting moments and if it remained for a day that was rare. The nights hung over me not exactly frightening but bewildering. I had never thought about this side to marriage, and it always seemed to me that the man I met behind the red curtains of the four-poster bed was a stranger—not the one who was so noble, dignified and commanding by day.

I loved him dearly. I never had any doubt of that, and the fact that at times he seemed rather remote in his daytime personality made him more than ever attractive to me. I used to fancy I could hear my mother’s explaining: ‘You were very young to marry. Had you been at home I should have talked to you and warned you of what you must expect. You would have been prepared. But it happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly that you are groping in the dark a little. Have no fear. You love him and he loves you. You are a little in awe of him because he holds a high position in the country. Well, it is a good thing to respect your husband.’

I used to wonder if she had felt thus with my father.

I thought if Bersaba were here I could talk to her. But I could not bring myself to write my innermost thoughts even to her.

In the afternoons when Richard’s work was done we would ride together. He delighted in showing me the countryside. He had a great feeling for nature and he loved trees. He would point them out to me and tell me about them; and there were a great variety round Flamstead. It was like a lesson in botany to ride with Richard. He would pause by a stream where the willow trees grew. ‘See how they love the moist damp earth,’ he pointed out. ‘Look, their roots are almost in the water. This is a male tree, for the flowers of the male and female are on separate trees. You should see the furry silvery tufts breaking out in the spring and the males have golden-tipped stamens and the females green. When they’re in full seed they look as though they are covered in tufts of white wool.’

He would point out the Scots pines and the yews.

‘Look at that yew. It has been there for over a hundred years. Doesn’t that give you pause to think? Imagine what changes it has seen. It was there when Queen Elizabeth first came to the throne and before that when her father was dissolving the monasteries and cutting us off from Rome.’

‘There is something rather sinister about yews,’ I said.

‘Well, they are poisonous to cattle.’

‘There’s something witch-like about them. One could imagine their having secret knowledge. But the berries are not poisonous, are they? The birds eat them.’

‘My dear little Angelet, you see good everywhere. I hope you always will.’

He talked at length about the yews; how they grew very slowly and could live for over a thousand years, and the flowers were of distinct sexes and grew on different trees—the male flowers small round and yellow, their stamens producing a considerable amount of pollen, the female flowers small green ovoids which grew on the under part of the twigs.

I felt that he was explaining that there was a similarity between nature’s laws with flowers and with people. He knew that I was uneasy, and he was telling me that I would grow accustomed to what seemed a little strange and alarming to me at first. Hadn’t it been happening throughout the world since the creation because it was nature’s way of replenishing the earth?

I listened avidly and tried to convey to him that I understood and would in time accept life as it was.

He had interesting stories to tell of the trees and said that they were the most beautiful of all nature’s creations. There was no time of the year when a tree was not beautiful. In the spring it was a joy with its buds and promise, in the summer it was rich and full; in the autumn the turning colour of its leaves was an inspiration to the artist, and it was best of all in winter when its denuded branches could be seen against a winter sky.

‘I had not thought you could be so lyrical,’ I told him.

‘I am usually afraid of mockery,’ he said.

‘Not with me.’

‘Never with you.’

I felt happy then.

Then he showed me an aspen—the trembling poplar—and it was fascinating to watch how it quivered in the light breeze.

‘It is said that the cross of Christ was made from the wood of an aspen and that ever after it has been unable to rest.’

‘Do you believe that?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘The leaves tremble so much because their stems are so long and slender.’

‘Do you have a logical explanation for everything?’

‘I hope so.’

I was learning a great deal about him. In the evenings he liked to talk to me about his battles and I tried to learn about them. Oddly enough he had sets of soldiers—tin ones, infantry and cavalry such as children play with. I was astonished when I first saw them. To imagine Richard playing with soldiers was the last thing I would have thought possible. But it was scarcely playing with them. He showed how certain battles had been won or lost and he would take a large sheet of paper and draw out the battlefield and place his soldiers on them.

He would show a rare excitement as he moved the soldiers about. ‘You see, Angelet, the foot soldiers came along here, but what they didn’t know was that the cavalry was lying in wait behind this hill. You see, they were so strategically placed that they were hidden from sight. It was a mistake on the part of the foot commander. He should have sent out spies to assess the enemy’s position.’

I tried to follow because I was so anxious to please him and it moved me deeply to see him there with his miniature soldiers. It made him seem young and vulnerable in a way.

I wished that I could have been interested in the battles but I could only pretend to be. I had always hated talk of fighting. My mother used to say that wars were made by the folly of ambitious men, and although they brought temporary gain to one side it was rarely worth having. Of course they had still talked now and then of the defeat of the Armada, but that was a sea battle and we had been fighting for our lives and our freedom then.

So I would sit there in the evenings while he played out his battles and engaged me in a game of chess—a game at which I had never excelled. Bersaba and I used to play together and I so rarely defeated her that it was a red-letter day when I did.

After the game was over Richard would sit back and survey the board and tell me where I had gone wrong, and often he would put the pieces back and want us to start again at that point.

He was born to command and to teach, I suppose, and he seemed to take a special delight in instructing me. Sometimes I thought he looked upon me as a pupil—a beloved and cherished pupil but one, none the less, who needed a good deal of instruction.

I did not mind. I was happy, desperately wanting to please him. I had to remember that I would seem such a child to him. I was going to try to grow up, to enjoy the things that he enjoyed, to be able to plan my chess moves as far ahead as he could and to understand why the infantry should have gone forward instead of remaining where they were—or vice versa.

So this life went on for those two weeks. It was a sort of routine—a tender teacher with his pupil.

Then one day a messenger came. He was in the uniform of the King’s Guard and he had a letter for Richard.

This captain and Richard were closeted in the library for a long time and then Richard sent one of the servants for me.

I went down to the library and Richard smiled at me rather sternly, I thought.

He presented the captain to me and said:

‘I shall be leaving tomorrow, Angelet. It is necessary for me to go north for a brief spell. Trouble is expected on the border.’

I knew I must not show my disappointment. He had told me that a soldier’s wife must be prepared for sudden calls such as this, so I tried to be the wife he would have wished me to and said, ‘What would you like me to tell the servants to prepare?’ My voice was a little tremulous, but I was rewarded with a look of approval.

The next day he left Far Flamstead.

The house seemed different without him. I had the sudden odd feeling that it was secretly amused because I was now at its mercy. I had always been fanciful; I lacked that logical mind which Richard had cultivated. He had left in the afternoon and I went right up to the roof and watched him until I could see him no more. Then I descended the newel staircase, and as I came down I paused at the door of the Castle Room. My hand was on the latch but I hesitated. He had not wanted me to go into that room for some reason. What would he think of me if I went in within half an hour of his departure? Resolutely I went back to our bedroom.

I stood at the window and looked out. I could just see the pseudo battlements of the castle, and I wondered why he had looked so stern when he had told me I was not to go there. I turned my back on the view and, sitting on the window-seat, looked at the four-poster bed. I should sleep there alone tonight, and it was no use my telling myself I was not relieved, because my feelings were too strong to be denied.

I shall get used to that, I told myself. And I thought of the lessons of the trees and the laws of nature, and I fell to wondering if soon I would know that I was to have a child. There was no doubt of my feelings about that. I imagined the letters I would write home.

It was strange eating alone, but I felt that the attitude of the servants had changed and that I was not served with the same military precision. Another facet of Richard’s character was that he could not endure unpunctuality. He would arrive exactly at the appointed time, and on one or two occasions when I had been a few minutes late his expression had shown his disapproval, although he had said nothing.

After supper the evening seemed long. I went to the library. Most of the volumes dealt with military matters. I smiled wryly. ‘Well,’ I told myself, ‘you did marry a soldier.’

Then to bed.

How big the bed seemed—how luxurious and comforting. I slept soundly, and when I awoke in the morning I felt a sense of desolation because he was not there.

Life, I assured myself, was full of contrasts, light and shadow, pleasure and endurance. During the day I would miss him so much, but I had to admit I was relieved at night.

I spent the morning in the garden as I always did, ate a solitary dinner, and the afternoon stretched out long before me. Should I ride? If I went far I must take a groom with me just as we always had to at home, so I had no great desire to go.

I found myself climbing the newel staircase to look at the view from the roof, but as I came to the Castle Room the urge came to me to go in and it was so strong that I couldn’t resist it. Even as I stood on the threshold I felt uneasy, I suppose because I was doing something of which my husband would not approve.

It was an ordinary room. Table, chairs, little writing table and court cupboard. What was unusual about it? Only the fact that from it there was a good view of the castle.

The castle! This room! Forbidden territory. I wondered why. As the castle was unsafe, the stone was crumbling, why not remove it? It seemed to be of no use, but it had been put there by an ancestor. But why should this most logical man care about that? I could hear his voice as he bent over his toy soldiers. ‘The infantry here were useless … quite useless. If they had been here, now … they could have done very good work and that might have been another story.’

The site of the castle could be used for another building. Something useful. Or gardens perhaps.

I went to the window-seat and, kneeling there, looked out. It really was rather absurd. Just a modest little house, really, with grinning gargoyles on its turrets and tiny machicolations from which no boiling oil or hot tar had ever been thrown down on intruders.

I turned back to the room. ‘Homely,’ I murmured. Yes, it did look as though it had been lived in. I wondered by whom. I tried to open the doors of the court cupboard. They were locked, but one drawer opened and in it was a key. It was that to the cupboard, so I was able to open the doors. It was full of canvases.

I was interested. Richard had said that he wanted me to start a tapestry and I thought it was just what I needed to fill the hours while he was away, and here were the canvases. I took them out and examined them. They were of varying sizes. I opened another drawer and found a quantity of beautiful coloured embroidering silks.

I took out the canvases, spread them out on the table, and as I did so a small worked piece fell out. I picked it up. It was one of those samplers which most children were expected to make at some time as a lesson in patience and diligence. This one was neatly worked and the cross stitches were minute. I had worked one myself, but Bersaba had cobbled hers and had asked my mother what useful purpose it served to have to sit there making neat little stitches—though Bersaba’s were never neat—in the form of the alphabet, numbers one to nine, and a verse from the Bible—‘Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the Earth’ or something like that—followed by one’s name and the date. My mother had seen Bersaba’s point and she did not have to pursue hers. I finished mine and my mother showed it to my father with great pride.

This was similar.

The letters of the alphabet, the numbers and:

‘My lips shall not speak wickedness neither shall my tongue utter deceit.’

‘The price of wisdom is above rubies.’

And underneath that ‘M. Herriot in the year of our Lord 1619’.

Magdalen, I thought. She lived here. This was her room. It was for that reason that Richard had not wished me to come here.

Now that Richard was not here, the servants’ attitude definitely changed towards me. Mrs Cherry liked to talk to me, and when I went to the kitchen my stays were longer than they had been.

Richard had wanted me to learn the duties of the mistress of the house and this was something in which I did not need a great deal of tuition, for my mother had always been a woman deeply concerned with domestic matters and she had brought us up to feel the same. It was one of the areas in which I did better than Bersaba, and I was often in our kitchen at Trystan when my mother gave the orders for the day.

So I had no difficulty with Mrs Cherry, who sensed this and respected me for it.

I made a point of going down to the kitchen each morning to tell her what I would have for dinner and supper. She would sit down with me, purring slightly. She seemed a very contented woman, I thought.

She called me ‘my lady’ as all the servants did, and she spoke of the General in hushed whispers which implied great respect.

I asked her if she had done a lot of cooking at any time and she answered yes, she had, for there were occasions when the household was full of guests. ‘Military gentlemen,’ she said. ‘They’d come here and stay for a few days. The General would ride out from Whitehall with them. Big appetites they had and good drinkers most of them. That’s why the General keeps a good cellar. Cherry says we’ve got some of the finest malmseys and muscadels in England.’

‘You must tell me what happens on these occasions, Mrs Cherry. I shall want to make sure that they are a success.’

‘You can rely on me … and Cherry, as well as Mr Jesson, and we see that the rest of them behaves, if you know what I mean. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for the General.’

‘It must have been difficult for him without a hostess all these years.’

‘Well, I reckon you’ll be a help, my lady, but I can tell you that these military gentlemen like to eat and drink and fight their wars on the table and they’re content. I remember one night when we went in to clear away after supper and there they were … my best game pie was some fort or other and my boar’s head was the enemy’s cavalry, if you please. There they were arranged there all over the table … you never saw the like … and one of them started making pellets of bread and throwing them around. Shot and shell they was.’

I laughed. I could well imagine that.

‘Their profession is fighting, Mrs Cherry, and preserving the country from our enemies.’

‘I don’t doubt that, my lady. But as I was saying … give them a good sirloin of beef and a leg of mutton and plenty of pies and plover and partridge and hare or peacock and something good to wash it down with, and they’re content.’

‘I am sure everything will work splendidly.’

‘Oh, you can rely on me, my lady … and Cherry. And the rest of them too.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And there’s one thing we have to be ready for. At any time the General can arrive. You can be sure that he’ll be back here as fast as he can … he being such a newly married man.’

‘Mrs Cherry,’ I said, ‘how long have you been here?’

‘It was before the General … er … before his first marriage. Cherry got a wound in his leg, and the General thinking highly of him, and Cherry being unfit for service, he says … the General I mean … well, come along and be my general factotum … that’s what he said, and Mrs Cherry can be the housekeeper and cook for me. Cherry jumped at it, and so did I. Always a high regard Cherry had for the General … who wasn’t a General then … that came after.’

‘So you were here at the time of his first marriage.’

‘Oh yes. I remember the day he brought her here. We talked of it here in the kitchens only the other day … your coming reminded us … those of us who were here, of course. I said: “He’s not made a mistake this time,” and Cherry agreed with me.’

‘A mistake?’

‘Oh, I’m speaking out of turn again. Cherry’s always telling me I talk too much. Well, it’s good to be sociable. Well, since you ask, my lady and it’s as well to know what’s gone before, I reckon, she was a delicate little thing. Too young she was.’

‘How young?’

‘Seventeen … going on for eighteen.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘I know you’re a young lady yourself, but she seemed younger, if you know what I mean. One of the Herriots. Thought a good deal of themselves, the Herriots did … one of the finest families in the north. The families were in favour and I think that had to be the reason for it. So they were married, and the General … only he wasn’t a General then … brought her home. She knew nothing about housekeeping. She was frightened of her own shadow.’

‘She liked needlework.’

‘Yes, indeed, my lady. She’d sit up there in the Castle Room and she’d have her tapestry set up there and she’d work away and sometimes you’d hear her singing. She had a pretty voice … oh, a very pretty voice … but not strong, and she’d play the spinet and sing as she played. It was very pretty to hear her. There was one song she used to sing … ’

‘Yes, Mrs Cherry?’ I prompted.

‘We were trying to remember the other day because Grace was saying it was funny in a way … oh, not to make you laugh. I don’t mean that … queer, if you like. The song was about her being laid in her grave and she hoped her wrongs wouldn’t be held against her. The last line used to go “Remember me, but forget what brought me to this state”, which was very odd in a way.’

‘You mean because she died so young … and unexpectedly.’

‘Oh, it was expected. She’d been ailing all the time … The midwife—Mrs Jesson that was. She was here then and died a few years later—spoke to me a few days before and said she didn’t think her ladyship could survive.’

‘She was very ill then?’

‘Every woman must be a bit afraid of her first. It’s natural, and there’s many who give their lives for the sake of the child. It’s nature’s way … but it ain’t natural for anyone to be quite so frightened. That’s what I reckon.’

‘And so she and her baby died.’

‘It was a sad time, I can tell you. The General he just went away, and the house was quiet and dead like for more than a year.’

‘How very sad.’

‘Oh well, things are different now. You’re a strong healthy young lady, if you’ll forgive me the liberty of remarking on it. I reckon when your time comes …’

She looked at me intently, and for the first time I noticed an alertness in her eyes which did not quite accord with her placid rotundity. I supposed that she was naturally interested to know if I had already conceived. Women like her would like to have children in the house.

I stood up suddenly. I felt I had talked enough, and I had a sudden notion that Richard would not approve of this chattering with the servants.

So I said: ‘There is no need to cook a great deal, Mrs Cherry, as I shall be alone.’

‘Well, of course not, my lady. You just tell me what you want and I promise you it will be just to your liking.’

I had always had a strong curiosity about what was going on around me, and I thought a great deal about Richard’s life with Magdalen and wondered whether he had fought out old battles with her and admonished her about her lack of concentrated effort over the chessboard.

I smiled indulgently. Well, he wouldn’t have wanted a wife who could beat him, would he? I was not sure. There was a great deal about him that I did not understand. I was glad of it, for it made our future life full of interest and discovery.

I feared I was much more easy to read.

I was longing to work on a canvas. I did wish Bersaba were here. She used to draw my pictures for me, making the finished work a joint affair. When people complimented me on the finesse of my stitches I would always draw attention to the design. ‘That is my sister’s work,’ I would say.

As I went through the canvases I found one of them already mapped out. The design was beautifully drawn and I thought Magdalen was quite an artist. It was a garden scene. There was a pond with lilies on it, and I realized at once that it was a study of the pond garden which was enclosed by a hedge and surrounded by a pleached alley. I studied it intently. What beautiful colours one could use. And then I saw that above the alley there was a glimpse of the towers of the Folly without the tall wall which was now there.

I must work that canvas, for it solved the problem of the drawing, and when I found exactly the silks I needed I could not wait to begin, so I sat down there in the room, for it was an ideal spot and I could understand why she had used it so much. The light was exactly what one needed for such work.

As I sat there a strange feeling came over me. I felt at home and as though I were not alone.

‘I hope, Magdalen,’ I said aloud, ‘you don’t mind my using your canvas.’

The sound of my voice startled me and I laughed at myself, but at the same time it was almost as though I heard a murmur of contentment as I sat there selecting my silks. How I loved working with bright colours! The room was full of sunshine, and I thought: Could I make this my room? Richard wouldn’t like it. Or had I imagined that? Perhaps he had merely been eager to show me the rest of the house and that was why he had not wanted to linger.

I worked on for a while and then suddenly the room darkened. I turned sharply and went to the window. It was only a dark cloud passing across the face of the sun. There was a tetchy wind and quite a number of clouds had sprung up.

I watched them scurrying across the sky. Now the sun was completely hidden and darkness hung over the towers of the Folly. My mood had changed and I fancied there was a menace in the air. I turned away to look round the room. It was different now it was darker. My canvas lay on the table and the room had lost its homely atmosphere.

It seemed full of menacing warning, and I had the feeling that I wanted to get away.

As I went out I could almost hear Bersaba’s voice mocking me as she had when I had wakened sometimes from my nightmares.

‘You’re too easily afraid, Angelet. Why should you always be afraid? You should make other people afraid of you sometimes.’

I hurried down to the room I had shared with Richard.

Meg was there putting my clothes away.

‘It’s getting really dark, my lady,’ she said. ‘I reckon we’re in for a storm.’

The days began to speed past. A messenger arrived after three weeks with a letter from Richard, in which he said he was in the Midlands and would be going north shortly. He believed he might be away for as much as six weeks. ‘You can be sure that as soon as I can I shall return to you.’

That was as near as he could get to saying he loved me, but it was enough; and I knew he would be as good as his word.

In the meantime I would learn all I could about the management of his house and would surprise him. It was a lonely life because no one called. I suppose his friends knew that he was away and when he was home it would be quite different. They had left us alone for the weeks following our marriage because they would reason that would have been what we wanted; and now they would wait for his return.

I had several talks with Mrs Cherry and I was getting to know the girls Grace and Meg very well. I chose Meg as my special maid—well, it was not exactly that I chose her as that she seemed to fall naturally into the role. I learned that Jesson had been with the General as long as the Cherrys had, and that he had brought his wife and daughters with him to serve the household. I was glad they were there because without them and Mrs Cherry it would have been a household of men.

Meg was more talkative than Grace; the younger of the two, she was thirty-seven and told me proudly that she had been born in the January of the year the great Queen died. Grace could say she had actually lived during that glorious reign.

She remembered the previous lady of the house. ‘Very gentle, she was, and kind,’ she told me. ‘She’d sit up in that room with her stitching, just like you’re doing. Funny you should like sewing too. I used to dress her hair for her. She didn’t have one of them curly fringes, though. Beautiful hair, it was, and she was as pale as a lily. I used to love to hear her play on the spinet, and when she sang with it, that was lovely.’

‘Did she play and sing for the General?’

‘Oh yes, and when there was company she would too. But there was something sad about her. And then of course she was going to have the baby …’ Meg stopped short.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘what was she like then?’

‘Oh, I wasn’t with her so much then,’ she said evasively.

‘But you used to do her hair.’

‘Yes … but it wasn’t the same.’

‘Was … the General very upset about what happened?’

‘Oh, very. He went away for a long time, and then it must have been a year after the poor lady had gone they started building that wall …’

‘The wall round the castle, you mean?’

‘It darkened the place a bit.’

‘It was put there because the castle is in a dangerous state, I believe.’

‘That’s right, my lady. We’re none of us to set foot there. I reckon one of these days one of them turrets will fall off.’

‘It ought to be removed.’

‘Well, that sort of thing’s best to be left to crumble on its own, don’t you think?’

‘No, I should have thought it could be demolished quite simply.’

‘Oh yes, but the story is this old ancestor built it and he might get nasty and start haunting the place. Not that that would be much worse. I reckon it’s haunted already.’

‘What makes you say that, Meg?’

‘Oh, nothing, my lady, only that that sort of place often is.’

‘But you said it was haunted. Have you seen anything?’

She hesitated and a little too long at that, and I saw her press her lips together as though she were determined to prevent words escaping which should not.

It was clear to me that there was some mystery about the castle and that someone—it must have been Richard—had given instructions that I was not to be frightened by gossip about it.

The days began to pass tranquilly enough. I worked for several hours on my canvas and felt my fingers itching to work on the castle, so I deserted the pond and stitched happily in the grey wool I had found and which was a fair match for its walls. Then I worked a little on the simples in the gardens and gathered them and made some of them into possets and potions as my mother had taught me, for there was a good stillroom at Far Flamstead. Mrs Cherry was very interested and told me that she was ‘a dab hand’ with the simples. She had recently cured Jesson of a pain he had which, between ourselves, she was sure was due to over-eating, and Meg swore by her cure for headaches. She was eager to add my mother’s recipes to her own. ‘You’re always learning something,’ she said.

I scarcely ever rode out because I found plenty to do in the house, and when I did I went round the paddock where I could be by myself.

Letters came from my mother and Bersaba. My mother’s were full of advice as to my housekeeping and telling me how she longed to see me. Bersaba’s were brief, so I suppose she was still easily tired. The intimate rapport between us seemed to have been lost. I suppose marriage had changed me, for I felt I had left the world of my childhood far behind me and had to start living a new life, but I was constantly thinking how wonderful it would be to see my mother and my sister.

I did not realize how I was thrown inwardly on my own resources and that I was becoming obsessed by the past, yet desperately as I wanted to please my husband I must understand him and learn all I could about him. I must therefore discover all that was possible of his life before he had known me and one of the most important events in that past must naturally have been his marriage.

Working on Magdalen’s canvas, sitting in her room, I felt I was getting to know her. She was one of the Herriots—a very well-known family. ‘High places at Court, they had,’ Mrs Cherry told me. ‘There were a lot of girls—six of them—and husbands had to be found for them. My lady was the youngest. She was always timid.’

Poor little Magdalen, who had been so frightened of the trials of childbirth. I shouldn’t be like that, I knew, for if only I could have a dear little baby everything would be worthwhile. After all, the best things in life had to be worked for, suffered for.

I found a great pleasure in being out of doors. On warm days I would take my canvas and sit in the pond garden. It was rather amusing to sit there in the very surrounding which I was stitching on to my canvas. I would wander around a good deal. I watched the flowers opening in the enclosed gardens and it occurred to me that I might bring in some of my own ideas. Perhaps I should tell Richard what I would like to do before consulting with the gardeners. However, there was no harm in making plans.

I found my footsteps led me often in the direction of the castle, but the high wall made it impossible to see it at close quarters, although I knew, from the Castle Room view, that surrounding the building was a thick growth of fir trees forming themselves into a little wood.

I wondered a great deal about it and what it was like inside. I imagined a tiny guardroom, suits of armour, a little keep, spiral staircases—Castle Paling in miniature.

The fir trees grew thick on both sides of the wall. Some of them could have been quite young trees planted perhaps when the wall was built. They were of the cupressus variety, the kind which grows very quickly and in a few years a little sprig becomes a bushy tree. The thought occurred to me that they might have been chosen for that purpose.

The more I thought of it the more strange it seemed. Of course, I thought, Richard is fully occupied with his military career. He doesn’t want the nuisance of having workmen here pulling down the castle. It would be a major undertaking. That was why he left it, and because it had been neglected for some years it probably was dangerous. But why build a wall around it?

I could not keep my thoughts from it. It was the first thing I looked at when I went to the Castle Room, and when I explored the gardens again and again it seemed my steps almost involuntarily led me there.

One day when I was walking through the trees close to the wall I felt suddenly alert, for I sensed that someone was near me in the copse. I didn’t know why that should startle me so much, for one of the servants might easily be there. But why should they be there? They might ask why should I. I was there because I was naturally curious about anything that concerned my new home and my husband, and I could not quite reconcile myself to the explanation he had given me of this mysterious castle.

I listened. The swish of a branch as someone brushed it aside; the dislodgement of a stone; the startled scurry of a rabbit or some such animal; but most of all the awareness of a presence. Someone was watching me. Perhaps someone who had seen me come here before and was alarmed by my curiosity?

I was going to find out.

I went forward quickly, then paused to listen.

Yes, there was the unmistakable sound of retreating footsteps.

‘Who’s there?’ I called.

There was no answer. And then … through the trees I saw a face. It was there and it was gone. Whoever it belonged to must have been hiding behind one of the trees and I had just caught him peering out.

It was a face though that, once seen, would not be easily forgotten. The dark hair grew low on the forehead and the bushy eyebrows were jet black; the face was very pale—unusually so—and there was a vivid birthmark on the left cheek.

It was the sort of face that could be a little startling and especially disembodied, as it were, for the tree hid the rest of him.

‘Who are you?’ I cried.

But the face disappeared, and for a few moments I could do nothing but stand there because I was more than a little startled by what I had seen.

Then I went on through the woods, calling to whoever it was to stop. But there was no response. I went through the trees until I came to the wall surrounding the castle. It was the first time I had approached it from this direction and that was how I discovered the door in the wall. I stood for a moment examining it, looking, furtively I must admit, over my shoulder, expecting at any moment to see that rather unearthly apparition. A door in the wall! There was an arch which betrayed it, for the wall at this point was covered with creeper which festooned over it, almost obscuring the door. I pushed aside the creeper and examined it closely. There was a keyhole which would take a large key. I lay against the door and pushed it. It was fast locked.

It was very strange, and as I stood there a sense of apprehension came over me. I felt alone suddenly and very isolated from the household of Far Flamstead. I kept thinking of that face which had looked at me through the trees, the strange expression of the eyes. They had not been threatening, far from it. They had seemed almost afraid of me, which was perhaps why I had somewhat recklessly followed.

But now I felt a great urge to get out of the copse. I started to run and did not stop until I was through the trees and in the clear.

I was quite breathless, and the first person I saw was Mrs Cherry. She was coming out of the herb garden carrying some leaves and sprigs in her apron which she must just have gathered.

‘Why, you look startled, my lady,’ she said.

‘I … I just saw someone in the copse.’

‘In the copse, my lady?’

‘Yes, the one by the castle wall.’

‘Oh?’ Her round eyes seemed to have taken on an alert look. ‘Trespassers then … ’

‘It was a man with dark hair and brows and there was some birthmark on his cheek.’

She hesitated for a few seconds, her brows drawn together while she looked down at the grass. Then she lifted her face and was smiling. ‘Oh, that would be Strawberry John. So he were there, were he? He’d no right, the rascal.’

‘Strawberry John. What’s that?’

‘He have this mark on his cheek like. In strawberry season it comes up just like a strawberry. They say his mother had a terrible fancy for strawberries when she were carrying him and he were born with it … right on his cheek, it is, so you can’t fail to see it. He makes a bit by poaching where he shouldn’t, if you get my meaning. Yes, I know Strawberry John.’

‘I called out and he didn’t answer. He ran.’

‘He knew he’d no right to be in them woods, that’s what. Why, you look really scared. There’s nothing to fear from Strawberry John.’

I had explored the gardens and I wanted to go farther afield. I knew that I was supposed not to go riding beyond the paddock, but I was thinking a great deal about Bersaba, who had often gone out riding alone, so I decided I could come to no harm and one day I set out.

I took a different route from the one I had taken with Richard, and rode on through pleasant lanes for about three miles when I came to a farmhouse. It was large and comfortable-looking with stone walls and a tiled roof. Close by were several small cottages and they all seemed part of the farm estate.

I approached with interest, for it struck me that the owners of the farm must be our nearest neighbours. As I stood there a woman came out of the house, went to the well to draw water and, seeing me on horseback, she called a greeting.

There was something familiar about her and she certainly noticed the same about me, for she approached, looking at me curiously.

Then I recognized her. She was Ella Longridge, the sister of the man whom Richard had challenged to a duel.

‘Why,’ she cried, ‘we have met before.’

‘You are Mistress Longridge, I believe.’

‘And you are the new mistress of Far Flamstead. We met at a ball …’

‘I remember it well. You and your brother were together there, and there was an unfortunate incident.’

‘It was satisfactorily settled,’ she said. ‘You are riding alone?’

‘Yes. My husband is away on military matters and I have grown tired of keeping within bounds and had no wish to bring a groom with me.’

‘Would you care to come in a while? My brother is out, but he would not wish me to be inhospitable.’

‘It’s kind of you. I should greatly like to do so.’

I dismounted and tethered my horse to a post near the mounting-block and went with her into the farmhouse.

I noticed the simplicity of her grey gown, and she wore a white collar and white apron. Her shoes were strong and serviceable and her hair taken back from her brow in the plainest of styles.

We were in a large kitchen with an open fireplace at one end and a long refectory table with benches for seats and two armchairs at either end. On a dresser were pewter vessels, and hanging from chains over the fireplace was a large black pot in which something savoury was cooking; from the wall oven came the appetizing smell of baking.

I said I was surprised to find that we were neighbours.

‘Our families were very friendly at one time,’ said Ella Longridge, ‘but differences arose and you saw the climax at the ball. My brother had not so openly expressed his disapproval of certain matters before and your husband took exception to his view. It may well be that he would not wish you to come here, but shall we say this is a meeting between two women who do not care so ardently for the quarrels of men.’

She looked round the farmhouse and said: ‘You see we live simply here. My brother manages the farm but that is not his only occupation. He was a Member of Parliament and writes papers on political matters. I fear sometimes he is too outspoken; he was never one to consider the effect of his words.’

I could not help liking Ella Longridge, and the thought of having her as a near neighbour lifted my spirits considerably, for I was realizing how lonely I had been.

She went to the oven and brought out a batch of little pies, golden brown and looking appetizing.

‘We will sample them while they are hot from the oven, and if you would care for it I will give you some of our homebrewed ale.’

She put the ale from a cask into two pewter mugs and set them on the table. Then she took two of the hot pies and placed them on platters.

‘It is not every day that I have a visitor,’ she said.

‘We are very near neighbours.’

‘By a short cut we are a mile and a half from each other, and our farm land extends almost to the grounds of Far Flamstead.’

‘Have you lived here long?’ I asked, sipping the delicious ale.

‘All our lives. We have a residence in London which Luke used when he was a Member of Parliament. He is always hoping that this state of affairs will end, and he with others is working to that purpose. But we are of the land, farming stock, and sometimes I think it would have been better for Luke if he had not dabbled in politics. It can be a dangerous game in such times as these.’

‘We seem far removed from all that in Cornwall.’

‘Luke seems to think that the storm that is brewing will envelope the whole country—even the most remote areas.’

I shivered. ‘I hate conflict. My mother used to say that our family had suffered a great deal from it in the past.’

‘All families have, I imagine. But the country is in a sorry state, Luke says. There are too many people bent on enjoying what they call the good things of life. They should live more simply.’

‘As you do,’ I said. ‘These pies are very good.’

‘I do most of the baking myself. We have but two maidservants in the house. Of course there are several people working on the farm. I will show you later if you would like to see. There are the brew-house, where this ale is made, and the dairy, the woodstack barns, the cattle sheds, and we have a separate bake-house, for there are many to feed.’

‘You work very hard, Mistress Longridge.’

‘I am content in my work, for it is that to which I have been called.’

She asked me questions then about my family, the reason for my coming to London, and about my marriage. I found it pleasant to have someone to talk to.

And when we had eaten and drunk she showed me the farmhouse; we ascended the wooden staircase and went through a number of rooms, some of which led into each other; they all had the heavy oak beams and small leaded windows, and all were fresh and clean, though rather sparsely furnished.

I said I should go now as they might well be wondering where I had been and would be alarmed if I did not return in time for dinner.

Ella then said that she would not detain me, but if I wished to call again I should be very welcome. She had few friends in the country because Luke had upset so many of them by his views and it seemed that most of the people they had known were in opposition to him.

As I was about to mount my horse Luke Longridge himself rode up. He was astonished to see me and like his sister he recognized me at once.

‘So we have a visitor,’ he said, dismounting and bowing to me.

‘It was a surprise call. Mistress Tolworthy was riding by and paused to look at the farm, so recognizing her I invited her in.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Luke. I immediately noticed his plain dark doublet and breeches and hair which was cut close to his head, quite different from the fashion.

‘I was just about to leave, as I did not want them to be anxious about me.’

‘You rode here alone?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It is not far and I did not want a groom to accompany me.’

‘And your husband?’

‘He is away from home and has been for some weeks.’

‘You must allow me to take you home,’ he said.

I could not refuse such an offer. Moreover, I was interested in him and I felt I should be civil to him because I had always thought that Richard had provoked him on that occasion when I had first met the Longridges.

He mounted his horse and we rode off together.

I said I had had no idea that we were such near neighbours.

‘We have been so all our lives.’

I thought it was no use pretending I did not remember his and Richard’s disagreement, so I said: ‘I am glad you did not fight my husband.’

‘It was a challenge given in the heat of the moment. I should not care to shed blood over such a trivial matter. I think General Tolworthy realized that later, for he accepted the situation.’

‘People become ardent over matters which seem important to them. My husband is in the King’s army and he is naturally completely loyal to His Majesty.’

‘And it is right that he should be. But a country can be more important than its king.’

‘I have always thought of them as one: King and Country.’

‘That is as it should be. I trust General Tolworthy will not object to your calling at the farmhouse.’

‘I am sure he would not.’

‘When he returns you must tell him that my sister invited you in and that I escorted you home.’

‘Yes, of course I shall.’

‘It might be that he will object to such neighbourliness.’

‘I am sure he would be pleased for me to have friends so near since he has so often to be away from home.’

‘We shall see. And if that is the case my sister will be delighted with your friendship.’

‘And I with hers. It has been a most interesting morning.’

Far Flamstead had now come into sight and he said he would leave me.

He bowed, and I knew that he waited and watched until he saw me ride into the stables.

Soon after that I began to suspect that I was pregnant. I wasn’t sure, of course, and it may be that I wished for this so fervently that I imagined it was so. I used to sit in the Castle Room and dream about the child and thought: This time next year it will be here—that’s if it is so.

I was a little absentminded and of course this began to be noticed. I caught Mrs Cherry looking at me intently, and once when I went into the kitchen she was whispering with Grace and Meg, and as the whispering stopped abruptly as I entered I guessed they were discussing me, for while Mrs Cherry retained her rotund cheerfulness the other two looked a little embarrassed.

When she was doing my hair Meg asked me if I felt well.

‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘Why do you ask? Don’t I look well?’

‘Oh yes, my lady, you look very well … but different.’

‘How different?’ I asked sharply.

She was again embarrassed.

‘Well, we was wondering, my lady … I hope it’s not out of place, but, you see, being as it was in the family … we got noticing things.’

‘Really, Meg,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

She hung her head and looked very uncomfortable, and because I insisted on her telling me what she meant she said: ‘Well, it would be lovely to have a little baby in the house. It’s what we’d all look forward to.’

I felt myself flushing scarlet. ‘But what makes you think …’

‘It was Grace, my lady.’

‘Grace!’

‘Well, you see, she learned it from my mother and she was going to be one herself. She does now when she’s needed … roundabouts, you know. If anyone wants her. She’s got a natural way for it.’

‘Really, Meg,’ I said, ‘I haven’t the faintest notion of what you are talking about.’

‘Our mother was a midwife, my lady, and she taught Grace all she knew. Grace would have been the same, only we came here and she has other duties. I reckon she earns her keep as I’m sure you’ll agree …’

‘I do, but what about Grace?’

‘Well, Grace has second sight you might say, my lady, where babies is concerned, and she reckons that you’re what she might call in the family way, if you’ll excuse the expression to a lady.’

‘How could Grace know?’

‘Well, she always says that people change when they get that way … no matter who they be, and she says she’d take a wager on it, my lady.’

I said: ‘Grace may be right. I shall hope so.’

Meg smiled, very well content.

As the days passed I began to feel Grace’s insight had not failed her.

August would soon be with us. The wheatfields of the Longridge Farm were already changing colour and were now a golden brown, and the barley and oats and his root crops made a patchwork quilt of the land—yellow, white, blue, green and purple. Mine was not a poetic nature, but I told myself that the whole earth was symbolically fruitful.

How I longed for a child! In my mind I talked to my mother and Bersaba, but I was afraid to write to them for fear I should be wrong.

However, I couldn’t resist talking to knowledgeable Grace.

‘Grace,’ I said, ‘I’m almost sure.’

‘Oh my lady,’ she answered, ‘I am sure.’

‘I feel so excited about it.’

‘Bringing little lives into the world is the most exciting thing in life, my lady.’

‘Yes, I believe it is.’

‘Ain’t no doubt about it, my lady.’ She came close to me and looked into my face. Then she laid her hands on me.

‘I’d say ‘tis just about two months, my lady. There’s some as takes to breeding like the flowers to rain. It’ll be an easy birth, I can promise you. You’ve got that sort of figure for it. Little waist and big hips—like an hour-glass—and that’s good for babies.’

‘You’re very comforting, Grace.’

‘Oh, I know my business. There’s not a child of eight and under in Longridge Cottages who wasn’t brought into the world by me—and them that’s older was brought in by my mother. You can rely on me. I’ll be beside you all through.’

‘Of course it’s very early days yet.’

‘Don’t you fret, my lady. The baby’s here all right. I don’t have a shadow of a doubt. My mother was the finest midwife in the country and she taught me all she knew. She was well thought of. The highest ladies in the land knew they couldn’t do better than have her in attendance. She always believed in being there a day or more before she was needed. None of that last-minute arrival on the scene if she could help it. A lot of harm could be done before she arrived. She was ready a week before …’

Grace stopped suddenly and I said quickly: ‘She attended the General’s first wife, then?’

‘’Tweren’t her fault the poor lady died. She said before that it were no ordinary confinement. She were very weak and my mother knew there wasn’t a hope for her, but she did all she could for her. All her skill she used … ’Tweren’t no good. The best midwife in the world can’t go against fate. Oh, she were different from you. You’re a fine strong healthy lady. No need to think of her …’

‘I’d like to know more about her, Grace.’

Grace’s mouth was tightly shut. ‘I reckon you don’t want to go getting fancies, my lady. You want to think about your own dear little baby. Why, I reckon next April you’ll be holding that little ’un in your arms and calling him the masterpiece of creation.’

I smiled at her. She was already assuming the role of nurse.

It amused me, and it was comforting to know that when my time did come I should be attended by the best midwife in the country.

A messenger came with a letter from Richard. Trouble had not developed in the north, as he had feared, and the situation was under control. Before the end of the month he would be with me.

I thought it was safe to write to tell him of my hopes, for I knew that they would delight him.

‘I am not sure but it could well be so,’ I wrote. ‘Grace, the dedicated midwife whose mother taught her all she knows and that seems to be everything there is to know on the subject, is absolutely certain, and she is treating me as though I am a very priceless piece of china. By the time you come home I shall be quite certain and I am so happy because I feel in my heart that it must be so. I have not written to Trystan Priory yet. My mother will be delighted and of course anxious. I don’t think I could ask for anything in the world, only just to see my mother and my sister.’

Within a week a letter came back from Richard. He must have read mine and sat down immediately to reply. He wrote:

‘My dear wife, your letter filled me with the utmost pleasure. I must impress on you to take care of yourself. I shall be with you just as soon as is possible, which must be by the end of the month. Then I shall hope to stay for a longer time—unless of course something unforeseen should happen. At the moment this seems unlikely. It might well be that your mother and sister could visit us. I should not wish you to undertake the journey to them at this time, and as the weeks go on you will need to take more and more care. I assure you that I am thinking of you when I am not occupied with military matters. You know how deep my affection is for you. Your husband, Richard Tolworthy.’

I smiled over the letter. It was not a passionate love letter by any means; but it was sincere and every word in it rang true.

I would not have had it otherwise.

There was one night when I could not sleep. I lay in the big bed and thought of Richard’s coming home and how we would talk and plan for the child. Life had taken on a new dimension. The thought of being a mother must make it so. I felt older, wiser. I had to be. I would have a new life to guide. I wondered whether I should be adequate.

My mother would be delighted and apprehensive. She herself had waited five years for my brother Fennimore and she would be so pleased, because no bride could have been quicker to conceive than I had.

I used to talk to Bersaba when I lay in bed, whispering and making up her comments. It seemed so strange that our lives should have suddenly diverged when they had run along side by side for so many years.

And as I lay there musing I was suddenly aware of a strange sound which broke the silence of the night. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it sounded like laughter … strange uncanny laughter, though not in the least mirthful. I sat up in bed and looked towards the window. A light flickered and went out. There it was again.

I knew whence it came. The castle!

I was out of bed in a second and, wrapping my robe about me, went to the window and watched. Then I heard the sound again. Laughter followed by a piercing scream. It was very odd.

I thought: Someone is in the castle.

From the window I could only see the turrets, but there was one room from which I could get a better view.

I lighted a candle, mounted the newel staircase and went into the Castle Room. It looked eerie by the faint light of a moon. I stood at the window and held up the candle. I could only see my own face mirrored there, so I set down the candle on the table and, going back to the window-seat, knelt there watching the turrets.

Then I saw the light again. It flickered and went out. It was as though someone was carrying a lantern, the light of which showed as he passed the machicolations of the turret.

I opened the window and leaned out, trying to get a little nearer to the castle, and then suddenly I was sure I saw a face. It appeared on the battlements—a disembodied face, as it were, peering out at me.

I felt my blood run cold, for it scarcely looked human, and for a matter of seconds it seemed to be staring at me. Then it disappeared, and the light with it.

I had seen that face before. I knew it belonged to the man I had seen in the woods. I had recognized the thatch of hair and the heavy brows, though I could not make out the mark on his face.

‘Strawberry John,’ I murmured.

Then I felt my hair stand on end, because as I knelt there at the window I knew that I was not alone in the room. For a few seconds I believed myself to be in the presence of something uncanny, and I was afraid to turn round. Indeed in those seconds I felt as though I were petrified, for I could not move. I was trembling with terror.

Someone was standing behind me. Someone was coming towards me. Fleetingly I remembered how Richard had not wanted me to come to this room.

I forced myself to turn sharply.

Mrs Cherry was standing behind me. She looked unlike her daytime self, because her hair was in two plaits which hung one over each shoulder and she was wearing a cloak of brown worsted which she clutched round her.

‘Mrs Cherry!’ I cried.

‘My lady, what are you doing up here? You’ll catch your death … and the window open.’

‘I thought it was …’ I began.

‘I know, you’ve been having nightmares, I reckon. What possessed you to come up here? I heard footsteps on the stairs. I’m a light sleeper, and I thought it was Meg walking in her sleep. We have to watch her. Then I come in here and find you, my lady … and in your condition.’

‘Mrs Cherry, something’s happening …’

‘Look, my lady, I’m going to get you back to bed. Why, you’re shivering with the cold. This is a nice thing, this is. The General would never forgive us if aught happened to you. Now you come on. It’s chilly in this room. I’m going to get you back to bed and quick as a flash of lightning.’

‘There’s somebody in the castle,’ I said.

‘Nonsense. No one could get in. It’s all locked up. The General’s orders. It’s dangerous, he says, and it’s downright forbidden for any one of us to go in there.’

‘I saw a light there. And I saw … a face.’

‘Now, my lady, you’ve been having nightmares. A nice soothing posset is what you want. I’m going to get that for you right away.’

‘I tell you I was not dreaming. I was wide awake and I heard the noise … a sort of laughter, and then I saw the light, so I came up here to see better and then there was the face.’

‘It was a trick of the light, I reckon.’

‘No. It wasn’t … I think it was … the man I saw in the woods.’

‘Strawberry John!’

‘I couldn’t see the birthmark. It was just the shape of his head and all that hair.’

‘Oh no, my lady. That couldn’t be. Come along down. I want to get you back to bed. I wouldn’t go wandering round in the night if I was you. Some of these stairs are tricky and a fall in your condition wouldn’t be the slightest bit of good to you and it might cause great harm. It wouldn’t be the first time a nasty fall had put an end to someone’s hopes. Now come on. I’ll have no peace till I see you back in your warm bed. And I’m going to bring up a hot brick for you, wrapped in lovely flannel, and one of my best soothing possets. Then in the morning you’ll feel right as rain and see it was only a nightmare.’

I could see it was no use talking to her, so I allowed her to lead me back to my room. I was at least comforted by her presence. I don’t know what I had expected to see when I turned from the window and came face to face with her. It was such an anticlimax when I had been expecting something supernatural to see that round rosy face looking at me in concern.

I was still shivering as she carefully tucked me in.

‘Now you wait and I’ll get that hot brick and my posset. We’ll be quiet because we don’t want to wake the rest of the household.’

I lay in bed waiting for her return. It was no use her stating I had had a nightmare. I had seen the flickering light. I had seen the face at the turret. I was not such an imaginative person that I had made that up.

She came first with the brick, which was a comfort. Wrapped in red flannel it gave out a gentle warmth and the shivering was soon giving way to a cosy comfort. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, and she was as good as her word. She had a small pewter goblet and in it some concoction which she said was sweet to the taste and soothing to the body.

She handed it to me and said: ‘Sip it, my lady. That’s the way it does most good. I don’t reckon there’s many as knows more of the secret of herbs and things that grow in the ground than I do and if there are I’d like to meet them, for it’s always a good thing to improve your knowledge. Some of the General’s important guests—great soldiers like himself—have talked of the flavour of my stews and all it was was a touch of burdock, lady-smock or old man’s pepper. You can do a lot with them … There they are all in the ground given us by the good God, and all we have to do is make use of them. Now in this posset I’ve got a sprinkling of thyme. That gives pleasant dreams, so my grandmother found out, and she passed it on through the family like, and there’s just a spot of poppy to make your sleep easy. Is it pleasant, my lady?’

‘Yes, it’s sweet … but not too sweet, and it does have a pleasant tang.’

‘I knew you’d like it. You’ll be asleep in no time.’

‘But I am sure I saw the light and the face. I won’t have it that it was fancy. As for a nightmare, I was fully awake.’

She was thoughtful for a moment. Then she said: ‘Strawberry John, you say. This face, it had a look of him?’

‘I can’t be sure. There was only the moonlight and his face was against even that. It was therefore in shadow. The shape of his head reminded me …’

‘I’m just wondering if that crazy Strawberry John got into the castle somehow. That just could be.’

‘How could he?’

‘If he got over the wall.’

‘Could he climb it? And there are glass flints at the top.’

‘You know that then, my lady.’

‘Yes, I noticed them when the sun was shining the other day. The little bits of glass were glistening.’

‘The General is so determined that everyone should stay out. But there is Strawberry John. He’s not quite right in the head, that’s why we don’t take much notice of him.’

‘He’s a poacher, you say?’

‘Yes, he does a bit of poaching. People round about are generous to him. They’re sorry for him. He being what you might call two happorth short. Now since you’re so sure you saw the light and the face, I just wonder whether he got in somehow. I’ll speak to Cherry and Mr Jesson. I’ll get them to run him to earth one day and question him. The General would want to know if it’s possible for anyone to get in there … and you can be sure he’ll put a stop to it if he knows what’s going on.’

I felt soothed by the thought that Strawberry John might have got into the castle, for I would not allow Mrs Cherry to convince me that I was a stupid hysterical creature who had imagined the whole thing.

I was beginning to grow sleepy. The warmth of the bed and soothing posset were working.

‘Thank you, Mrs Cherry,’ I said. ‘It was good of you to look after me.’

‘Oh, I’m only doing what the General would wish, my lady. We’ve got to take special care of you … now.’

She tiptoed out and I was soon asleep and did not wake until the sun was streaming into the bedchamber.

The next day I thought I would like to talk over what had happened with someone and I immediately thought of Ella Longridge. There was something about the farmhouse kitchen which was in direct contrast to the castle. Everything there was so simple; I imagined there was nothing in that big and homely room which was not of practical use. There was something direct about both the Longridges—matter-of-fact, down-to-earth, honest, good people.

Of course Richard did not agree with their views, which I knew were against the King in some way, and Richard, as a soldier, would be intensely loyal. It occurred to me that he would support the King even if he disagreed with his policies. Richard was a man who would have a certain standard of behaviour and never diverge from it. Luke Longridge was different. I wondered what he wrote in those articles which his sister had mentioned.

But it was not Luke I felt an urge to see. It was Ella, and the more I thought of that kitchen with the appetizing smell of baking coming from the oven and the sound of ale being poured into a pewter tankard, the more I wanted to be there.

I rode out in the early morning. I would call, spend an hour there and be back in time for dinner, and no one would know that I had been. After all, they had invited me to call when I wished and it might be that when Richard returned he would not wish me to continue the friendship. How friendly could one feel towards a man whom one had challenged to a duel? Perhaps it was not good wifely conduct to seize an opportunity to act against what might well be her husband’s wishes, but I did want the Longridges to know that I at least felt nothing but friendship for them, no matter how their views differed from those of my own family. My mother used to talk a great deal about tolerance. She believed it was a good thing, and that belief was something I had inherited from her.

So I set out and in a short time the farmhouse came into view. I rode into the yard and was about to dismount when I was seized by cramping pains.

I managed to get off my horse, and as I did so I was dizzy and I knew that I could not stand much longer, so I let myself slide to the ground and it was there that a serving-maid found me.

‘You’re ill, mistress,’ she cried and ran into the farmhouse.

Ella came out all concern.

‘Why, it’s Mistress Tolworthy,’ she said. ‘Here, Jane, help me into the house with her.’

I was able to stand and they helped me in, and very soon I was lying on a settle with rugs around me.

The dizziness passed but the pain continued.

‘I don’t know what is happening to me,’ I stammered. ‘I meant to call on you …’

‘Never mind now,’ said Ella. ‘Stay there and rest.’

That was all I wanted to do, and very soon I did know what was happening to me. I was losing my baby.

Ella Longridge put me to bed and sent over to Far Flamstead for Grace, who came and very soon confirmed my fears.

‘You’re safe enough, mistress,’ said Grace. ‘Why, ’twas nothing to speak of. ’Tis just the sorrow of losing it. But at this stage you soon recover and you’ll have more. ’Tis a warning to us, though, that we’ll have to take very special care of you. Must have had a shock like.’

She had brought some of her herb medicines with her, and she said that I shouldn’t move for the rest of that day but I’d be well enough to come home tomorrow, she was sure, although she’d want to see me first.

Ella said that Grace must stay the night and accompany me back the next day. She would feel happier with Grace in the farmhouse.

So there I lay in this plain bedroom with its bare boards and sombre colours, and I thought of what losing my baby would mean. My dreams had evaporated. I had lost the child just as I was becoming sure of its existence. I was glad I had not told my mother and sister; I was sorry that I had told Richard. I would have to write to him now and tell him that I had lost the child.

Ella came and sat by my bed; she brought her sewing with her, not embroidery, which I supposed she would consider frivolous, but the plain material she was stitching into garments for herself and her brother.

She told me how sorry she was that this had happened, and although she was a spinster who had no intention of marrying, she could well understand my feelings.

‘I wonder what went wrong?’ she said.

I told her what had happened the previous night.

‘That explains it,’ she said. ‘The shock must have brought on this miscarriage.’

‘I felt nothing at the time.’

‘I believe it happens like that sometimes. I wonder who was there in the Folly?’

‘You have heard of Strawberry John, have you, Mistress Longridge?’

‘I have. He is a strange-looking man. Very strong, I believe. His father was a very strong man indeed and John inherited that strength. He has this mark on his face and it is easy to identify him because of it. One doesn’t hear of him often. I don’t know where he lives …nobody seems to know.’

‘Mrs Cherry, our housekeeper, suggested that he found some way into the castle.’

‘That seems a very likely explanation. What a pity that you happened to be disturbed by it.’

‘I don’t know what my husband will say when he comes back. He is insistent that no one goes near the castle as it is unsafe.’

‘I dare say he will demolish it.’

‘I don’t know. He feels it would not be right, as his ancestor set such store by it.’

It was comforting talking to Ella and later in the day her brother came in, but as she insisted on my remaining in bed and the Longridges would not think it fitting for me to receive a gentleman in my bedchamber, I did not see him.

I slept peacefully that night and in the morning felt well enough to get up.

Grace pronounced me fit to travel, but Luke Longridge would not hear of my riding, and he took Grace and me back to Far Flamstead in one of the farm carts which was drawn by two horses. He said he would send a man over with my horse and Grace’s later that day.

Mrs Cherry seized on me, and murmuring something about my night’s adventure in the Castle Room which had brought this on, insisted that I go to bed.

I felt a little weak and very depressed, so I allowed her to take me there.

I was indeed sad. I did not realize until now how much I had counted on having my baby. I recalled now the nights in the big bed which had filled me with apprehension and which I had been inclined to forget while Richard was away. In my heart I had said it was worthwhile because I was going to have a baby. But now there was no baby.

These thoughts I could not explain to anybody, and when Grace and Meg kept telling me that I should soon have another, I could not help dwelling rather morbidly on the necessary preliminaries.

I wondered whether I was unusual, but I didn’t think so. I had heard it said by married ladies, whispering together, that it was a woman’s duty to submit to her husband’s needs, however uncomfortable and distasteful this might be; and I knew now what they meant.

I was certainly depressed, and I thought more and more of Trystan Priory, and it occurred to me that what I wanted more than anything now was to see my sister.

I told myself I could talk to her. There was a good deal she would not understand, of course. How could she, an unmarried girl and a virgin? But still I should find some comfort in talking.

Then Richard returned home.

He was solicitous and very concerned because of what had happened.

He seemed taller and more remote than I had been imagining him, and was a little embarrassed with me, not knowing how to tell me of his affection.

For one thing I was grateful. He said I must be strong again before we thought of having another child, because what had happened, although so early in my pregnancy and therefore not dangerous to me, might well have weakened me. And we must take no risks.

During that first week of his return I slept in the Blue Room, so called because of its furnishings, which was on the same landing as our own bedchamber.

‘You will find it more restful to sleep alone,’ was his comment. ‘Just at first,’ he added.

How grateful I was.

I hoped that he did not sense my relief, but I feared I could not hide it.

Of course I told him of the night before my miscarriage, how I had seen the lights and thought I had glimpsed Strawberry John on the battlements. I saw his face whiten and I could not understand the expression in his eyes. His mouth was tight, angry, I thought it.

‘Could you have imagined it?’ he asked, almost pleadingly, I thought.

‘No,’ I said vehemently. ‘I was fully awake and in possession of my senses. I saw the light, heard something, and there was no doubt that it was a face up there.’

‘And you recognized that face?’

‘Yes—well, I’m not absolutely sure. The light wasn’t good. But I had seen this Strawberry John in the woods near the castle.’

‘I wonder if it is possible,’ he said. ‘I shall discover.’

I said: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to demolish the castle?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t do that.’

‘But if it is dangerous and people can get in?’

‘People cannot get in. I don’t understand this. It was unfortunate, but I shall look into the matter. You should never have left your bed and gone up to investigate. It was foolish.’

‘It seemed natural. After all, I wanted to know what was going on in my home.’

‘I will see this Strawberry John at the first opportunity, and if by chance you saw him, I must ask you not to be afraid if by some chance you should do so again. If you do, come to me at once. I shall take the necessary steps. I do not wish you to attempt to investigate without telling me. Please remember that, Angelet.’

It was a command, spoken in a stern voice. So he must talk to his soldiers, I thought.

‘It is a painful subject,’ he went on. ‘Your wanderings in the night in all probability have lost the child. You must take care in future. Perhaps it would be better if you came to Whitehall and stayed in London for a while.’

I was silent. A terrible depression had come over me and I could not shake it off.

Then began the evenings when he brought out the soldiers and made a battlefield. He did not always involve me in this; and sometimes he would go to the library and become deeply immersed in some of the books there. We had the occasional game of chess, but I was afraid my game had not improved and I knew that there was little excitement for him in our battles over the board.

I knew too that soon he would be back with me in the red-curtained bed.

One day he said to me: ‘You are not really happy, Angelet. Tell me, what would make you so?’

I answered promptly: ‘Perhaps if I could see my sister. We have been together all our lives until I came to London. I miss her very much.’

‘Why should she not come to visit us?’

‘Do you think I might ask her?’

‘By all means do so.’

So that day I wrote to Bersaba.

‘Do come, Bersaba. It seems so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to talk to you about. I miss you and Mother terribly, but if you could come it would be a wonderful help to me. Bersaba, I need you here. You are stronger now. Are you strong enough for the journey? I do hope so and I do believe you will want to come when I tell you how much I need you.’

I read the letter through when I had written it. It sounded like a cry for help.