Saraband for Two Sisters

Escape from the Grave

I AM CHANGED. IT is no use their telling me I am not. I have come near to death, and only by a miracle—which was brought about through the assiduous care of my mother and Phoebe—have I survived. This terrible disease has set its mark on me. Who ever heard of anyone who escaped unscathed? I know that either my mother or Phoebe remained at my bedside through day and night, and not once did they sleep while they were there, but they took it in turns to spend the long nights with me.

It is because of this that I am not completely disfigured. On my brows there are one or two of those horrible scars, more on my neck, one on my left cheek, but my mother and Phoebe saved me from the worst, and there are few who have suffered the dreadful disease and come through it who show as few signs as I do. My mother bound my hands to my sides that I might not in my sleep touch the hateful sores; they watched over me; they bathed me in special oils made by my mother and learned from hers; they fed me broth and milk and beef tea, and they would not let me see myself in a mirror until they were sure that the disfiguration was going to be slight.

Although I was grateful that it is, I cannot pretend I am the same. I have grown thin and my eyes seem too big for my face. My mother says it has not impaired my looks, but I often ask myself if it is truth or mother love which makes her see me so.

For months even after the infection had left me I was conscious of a lassitude. I did not want to do anything but lie on my bed and read, and sometimes brood and ask fate why this had had to happen to me.

When my mother first told me that she had sent Angelet away I was relieved, because I knew that everyone in the household ran the risk of taking the disease which I had brought in from the midwife. Afterwards I began to feel a little resentful. It seemed unfair that Angelet should be having gay adventures while I should have this fearful one. But when Phoebe came into my room, her eyes round with adoration, I felt better, for there is no doubt that to Phoebe I am a mixture of saint and Amazon—a goddess of power and virtue. I like that, for my nature is one that revels in admiration. I suppose most people like it, but my love of it is inordinate. That was why I always wanted to score over Angelet. Now she is married to a very important man, it seems—a General in the King’s army—and my mother says that he is well known to people who have called at the house, and they think that Angelet has made a very good match indeed.

And it is all because of what happened to me, for if I had not contracted this disease, both Angelet and I would be here in Trystan Priory and since we had passed our eighteenth birthdays my mother would have been bestirring herself to get us husbands. Who would have believed that Angelet would find her own!

I often think of her and wonder what she is doing. We had been so close, we had always done everything together … well, not everything. She had known nothing of my affair with Bastian—and now we were miles apart—separated by distance and all the experiences she must be having in her new life.

I have taken to riding each day. The first time I sat in the saddle since my illness I felt like a novice, terrified that I was going to fall, but that soon passed and my mother agreed that I should ride a little each day. Sometimes she accompanied me and often I went with the grooms.

I am very conscious of the marks on my face.

‘They are nothing,’ said my mother. ‘In fact no one would notice them. You must wear a fringe on your forehead, which I hear from Angelet’s letters is most fashionable.’

Phoebe cut my fringe and curled it, but whenever I looked at myself in a mirror my eyes went to the scars. I used to get angry sometimes and think of Angelet who had had an exciting adventure ending in marriage while her skin remained as smooth and fresh as mine used to be.

It was as though she were constantly with me. I used to read her letters again and again. She described Far Flamstead with its quaint Folly to me so that I could see it clearly, and when she wrote of her husband I sensed that she thought him wonderful. Yet at the same time there was something which she held back. I couldn’t help thinking of them together … as Bastian and I had been, and I was filled with a bitter envy.

Soon after my eighteenth birthday my father’s ship returned. That was a day of great rejoicing in our household. My lassitude dropped from me then, for not only had my father returned but my brother Fennimore and Bastian with him.

When the news came that the ship had been sighted, there was the bustle of excitement and preparation which I remembered so well. My mother shone with an inner radiance and the whole household seemed to come alive. Only at such times would she allow herself to contemplate the hazards of the journey. That must have been a very happy trait to possess.

We rode down to the coast to greet them as they came ashore.

My father embraced my mother first as though he was never going to let her go again, and then he looked round for his daughters. It was difficult explaining so much in a few breathless sentences, and my mother had evidently practised how she would tell him, so that he should suffer no unnecessary anxieties even for a few moments.

‘We are all well and happy, Fenn. But so much has happened since you have been away. Our darling Angelet has married … most happily … and Bersaba has been ill but is now quite recovered. It is too much to tell now.’

My brother Fennimore embraced me and so did Bastian. I felt myself flushing with bitter anger, wondering how much of the change he noticed.

‘Let us get back to the house,’ said my mother. ‘I can only think that you are back … safe and well.’

So we rode back to Trystan Priory—myself between Fennimore and Bastian.

I told them as briefly as I could. I contracted smallpox; Angelet was sent away to stay with Carlotta and there had met her husband. We had recently had the news that she had married and everyone seemed pleased with the match.

‘Bersaba,’ cried my brother Fennimore. ‘You have had smallpox. But it is a miracle!’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The miracle of love, I suppose. You can imagine what Mother did for me. And there was Phoebe to help her. The blacksmith’s daughter, you know. Her father turned her out and I brought her to the Priory. She seems to think that makes her my slave for life.’

Bastian said nothing, but I could sense his emotion and I felt elated. It was at this moment that I started to come alive again.

There was the well-remembered atmosphere of festivity about the Priory. My father was delighted to be back, so concerned about what had happened in his absence. As we came into the house he had me on one side of him, my mother on the other, and he kept pressing my arm against him and I knew how thankful he was that I had survived.

Everything had to be told him in detail. Angelet’s letters had to be produced. He wanted to hear how I had gone to the midwife and how my mother had nursed me. He sent for Phoebe and thanked her for what she had done, and she said it was nothing to what I had done for her and she’d give her life for me.

There were sentimental tears in their eyes and I felt like an outside observer looking on at the scene; and all the time I was conscious of Bastian.

We supped in the hall that night and it was like long ago days, for the servants were at the table too. The only thing that was missing was the massive old salt cellar which a hundred years ago used to stand in the centre of the table, dividing the members of the household and their guests from the menials. It now stood in the kitchen as a sort of ornament and memento of other days. My father sat at the head of the table and Mother beside him, with Fennimore on my mother’s left hand and I on my father’s right. Bastian sat next to me.

Everyone was happy, for the servants loved my father and regarded him as the best of masters. I once remarked to Angelet that their regard for him was due in part to the fact that they saw him rarely, and it is so much easier to love someone who is not always there to irritate and inspire something less than loving. I remember how horrified she was and how we argued about our father and the servants and our different characters, hers and mine. ‘You’re a sentimentalist, Angelet.’ I clinched the discussion with that remark—for I invariably had had the last word. ‘And I am a realist.’ I could always nonplus her with words, but now of course she had escaped from me. She was the one who had had the fine adventure; she was the one who had made the good marriage.

So that was a merry meal except for the fact that my father regretted the absence of my sister. He would have liked to have had her living a few miles away and to be here with her new husband on this occasion.

I asked Bastian how he had liked voyaging and he replied that it had been a great adventure but he was not sure that he wished to go again.

He looked at me earnestly and said: ‘I want to stay here. There is so much to keep me.’

I wondered if he noticed those hideous pockmarks. My hair hid them on my brow where they were at their worst and I kept my left cheek turned away from him.

He said: ‘To think that you were so ill, Bersaba, and I knew nothing of it! You might have died.’

‘It is considered a miracle that I did not,’ I answered.

My mother said that she supposed he would like to go soon to his family and he replied that he would be very happy to stay at the Priory for a few days if she would allow it.

She reproached him warmly for asking, for she hoped he regarded the Priory as his second home.

My father said there were business matters in progress and he would want to discuss them with my mother, Fennimore and Bastian.

Bastian looked contented and I knew that he was watching me.

The next morning he asked me to ride with him and we went out together.

It was a beautiful morning, or perhaps it seemed especially so to me because I was regaining an interest in life. I was beginning to feel well again perhaps, or it might have been because Bastian was here and clearly in love with me that I noticed afresh the beauties of the countryside to which for so long I had been oblivious. I was struck by the bright yellow flowers of the vetch, which we called lady’s fingers and which grew on the hillside, and the pale blue of the skull-cap close to the streams. There also grew the woody nightshade—yellow and purple—the flower which always seemed to me to be of special interest because it could look so pretty and yet could be deadly. We were always warned not to touch it and we called it bittersweet.

On this day it seemed especially significant. For that was my mood—bitter-sweet.

Bastian said: ‘I have thought about you so much, Bersaba. I remember so much of …’

‘Of what should be forgotten,’ I answered.

‘It never will be,’ he answered vehemently.

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘You did forget for a time.’

‘No, I never did.’

I laughed and spurred up my horse. He was after me, beside me, pleading, ‘Bersaba, I must talk to you.’

‘Well, pray talk.’

‘I want to marry you.’

‘Now that your first choice Carlotta is out of reach, I make a good second, is that it?’

‘You are first, Bersaba. You would always be first.’

‘My experiences would suggest otherwise.’

‘I must try to explain.’

‘Everything is clear. No explanations are needed.’

‘When I think of everything we used to be to each other …’

‘That makes it all the more clear,’ I retorted sharply. ‘You knew that and yet you preferred Carlotta. Alas for you, she preferred someone else. Poor Bastian! Now you say, “Very well, since I can’t have Carlotta, I’ll take Bersaba.” Alas again for you. Bersaba is not one to be picked up and dropped and then to beg for the return of past favours.’

‘You have a sharp tongue, Bersaba.’

‘It is one of the reasons why it would be unwise for you to marry me.’

‘Your parents would be delighted.’

‘Would they? Have you asked them?’

‘I have spoken to your father.’

‘We are cousins,’ I said.

‘What of it? That didn’t bother you at one time.’

‘I’ve grown up. There is so much you don’t know. I have had a deadly illness, Bastian. I’m changed.’ I had pulled up my horse and dramatically took off my hat and shook back my hair. ‘Look!’ I showed him the scars on my forehead.

‘I love them,’ he said. ‘They make me want you more than ever.’

‘You have strange tastes, Bastian.’

‘Give me a chance, Bersaba.’

‘How? Shall we go to the woods and find a secluded spot and lie there together? Shall you come to my bedchamber this night when the household is asleep? It would be safe, you know. Angelet is no longer there.’

I saw the lights leap into his eyes and I felt a great surge of desire for him, but I held it in check, for my bitterness was as strong as my desire and my pride was as great as my need.

I turned away from him and put on my hat. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘you could enjoy our adventure until someone more desirable came along, someone to whom you could offer marriage.’

I spurred on my horse and galloped away, and as we sped over the soft turf a sudden realization came to me. It was not that I really cared for Bastian, that I needed Bastian, but that I was a sensuous woman who would always need men; I had more than my share of desire than most women, and I wondered then about Angelet and her husband and I knew of course that this was one of the assets—could one call it an asset or a liability?

—of which I had taken the lion’s share.

I knew that I must not be too often alone with Bastian, for old desires would torment me. But I did not love Bastian. I merely wanted that which others could give me, but my need had blinded me to the real reason. As I sped past fields where the rough-headed poppy was peeping out among the corn, as I saw the white flowers of hemlock and the purple bells of foxgloves among the lush grasses, I laughed aloud, because I had reached a new knowledge of myself, and experience had taught me that in knowledge was strength.

My father had decided that the Company would build new offices in Plymouth and Fennimore had expressed a desire to go there and superintend the management of these.

‘Fennimore is not at heart a sailor,’ said my father. ‘I am glad he took this voyage, which has been a revelation to him. He is a Company man. He will be invaluable on land, for that part of the venture is as important as the sea voyages.’

I believe I understood his pleasure. He did not want Fennimore to face the hazards of the sea; he preferred him to remain at home so that my mother did not lose them both now that Angelet had left home, and naturally her place would be with her husband and that was not in the West Country. They were aware of Bastian’s feelings for me, and although the fact of our close relationship may have caused them some qualms as to the wisdom of the match, they could see many advantages. I knew that I only had to say I loved Bastian and their consent to our marriage would be given. Bastian, as he had said, had already spoken to my father.

This amused me very much because I was aware that everyone was waiting for us to announce our betrothal. My mother was in a state of contentment. Her husband was home and it seemed as though his stay would be longer than usual, for he had this matter of the Plymouth office to concern himself with. Fennimore was not to go to sea with him when he next went; Angelet, though sadly missed, was satisfactorily and, it seemed, happily married; and I, Bersaba, had been snatched from what had at one time seemed like the tomb itself and was clearly regaining my health and strength, being only mildly scathed by the experience.

All my mother needed for her personal happiness was that of her family. Each day she looked for letters from Angelet, and when they came she read them aloud and then we all read them separately. I had letters from her too and I could sense something in mine which the others failed to see.

Angelet was holding something back. My sister had a secret, and I longed to know what it was.

Meanwhile I amused myself with Bastian. It was an interesting game I played and I had to be careful too, which added to my zest; for I had to guard my own nature. It would have been so easy to give way, for with my returning health I realized that my desire for a certain kind of pleasure had increased rather than diminished and that, I supposed, was something to do with the matter of growing older.

I would allow Bastian to think I was relenting. I would smile at him beguilingly and suggest we rode out together. Then I would torment him—and myself as well, which was by no means unpleasurable—and I used to feel so proud of myself when I resisted temptation that it was worthwhile having placed myself in a position to feel it. Often when the household was asleep he would slip out of the house and stand beneath my window and throw up soft clods of earth to attract my attention. Sometimes I would pretend not to hear; at others I would open my window and look out.

‘Go away, Bastian,’ I said.

‘Bersaba, I must see you. I must.’

‘I am not Carlotta, you must remember,’ I retorted, shutting my window.

Then I would laugh and feel very excited.

Once he came to my bedroom door, but I had been expecting this and had pulled the bar across.

‘Go away!’ I hissed. ‘Do you want to waken the household?’

It occurred to me that it would be most amusing to let him in and pretend I would allow him to stay and then deny him. But I was afraid of my own reactions and the last thing I wanted to do was to give way.

‘Bastian seems not in the least anxious to go to Castle Paling,’ said my mother. ‘I have sent a message to Melanie to tell her they are back and that Bastian is well. I have told her that there is much to do about this office in Plymouth.’ She smiled at me. ‘But somehow I don’t think that is the only reason.’

How she would have liked to think of her dear daughter only a few miles away at Castle Paling, for if I married Bastian I should one day be the mistress of that castle. She wouldn’t think of that, though. She wanted her brother to live for years and years and she wanted me close to compensate for the loss of Angelet.

So I amused myself during those weeks while Bastian stayed on and I became alive again. My disfigurations had not detracted from that certain allure which people like myself seem to have for the opposite sex. I began to realize that life was becoming exciting again and I thought a good deal of Angelet.

Her General sounded rather stern and old too. Playing games with soldiers—how odd! And chess. Well, poor Angelet had never been very good at that. One of our governesses had said, ‘You have a grasshopper mind, Angelet. Try to concentrate as Bersaba does.’ Dear Angelet! She could never concentrate for very long … not long enough to win a game of chess.

I should like to see her and this stern old man; and I wondered very much about their lives together.

Then there came the letter from Angelet. She had miscarried and had been so excited because there was to be a child, but had hesitated to tell us as she was not entirely sure. It had all happened so quickly and she would very shortly be well, for the miscarriage had taken place only about two months after conception. Still, she had felt unwell and her husband had thought it would be a good idea if her sister could pay her a visit. His profession made it necessary for him to be away from home a good deal, and although Far Flamstead was not a great distance from London it was still in the country.

There was a letter from Angelet to me.

‘Do come, Bersaba. I can’t tell you how often I have thought of you and longed for you to be here. There is so much to tell you. Strange things happen sometimes and I want someone to talk to. Someone who understands me …’

I thought then: So her General doesn’t. I wasn’t surprised. He was a good deal older than she. He was very solemn and serious. Angelet ought to have married someone young and light-hearted.

‘No one ever did as you did, Bersaba. Please, please come.’

I was excited. I had resented her going and leaving me behind, and if I went I should have a chance to escape from the rather stifling—if comfortable and deeply loving—atmosphere of home. Moreover, I wanted to see something of the world outside Cornwall.

How glad I was that I had not succumbed to Bastian!

My mother said to me: ‘Have you had a letter from your sister?’

I told her I had and that she was very insistent that I go to see her.

‘My dearest Bersaba. You won’t want to go because of Bastian perhaps. Angelet wants you; she writes as though she needs you. We must remember that you and she have always been together until now. It’s not natural for you to be apart. But of course she has her life to live and you have yours. You must do whatever you think best. I know how much you want to be with her, but perhaps even more you prefer not to go.’

I said: ‘I must think about this, Mother.’ I felt as I always did, ashamed when I deceived her, for of course I had already decided that I was going to London.

Bastian was stricken.

‘You can’t go,’ he said. ‘What about us?’

‘I shall doubtless meet Carlotta. I’ll tell her how desolate you are.’

‘Please, Bersaba,’ he implored, ‘be serious. That was a momentary madness, an aberration. Please, please understand. It was you I loved … I always loved you.’

‘I would prefer you to tell the truth. Lies would not be a good foundation on which to build a marriage.’

That raised his hopes. I really believed he thought that I was going to marry him.

The conceit of men was past understanding. Didn’t he know that he had wounded my pride so deeply that I would never forget it? Those scars were as indelible as those of the smallpox. He didn’t understand that I was not the sort to forgive. I wanted reparation. I wanted revenge. I was having it now, and it was as exciting as giving way to my carnal desires would have been.

‘Revenge,’ my mother had once said, ‘brings no happiness to the one who seeks it, while forgiveness brings nothing but joy.’

That may have been for her. It was not in my nature to forgive.

‘The Bible tells us to forgive,’ she said.

That might be, but I wanted an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and nothing less would satisfy me.

So I had my triumph, for the day came when I told them I had definitely decided to go to Angelet.

Bastian went to Castle Paling. I was up at the top of our house to see him go. He did not know that I watched him and saw him turn and look at the house in anguish.

I had finished with Bastian. I had made him suffer as I had, and this was indeed true, for I knew that he had loved me. I had learned too the exhilarating fact that there was within me a certain attraction which had not been diminished by my illness. Moreover, I had my journey to plan, and although I felt some sadness at leaving my parents, I could not help but be excited at the prospect of adventure ahead and of course reunion with my sister. I loved my family, but not with the same dedication which I think the rest of them shared. I was too self-centred for that, and I had always known that my own desires and inclination must be of greater importance to me than those of others. I think many people shared this characteristic, but I had this rare virtue that I could see it and admit it. My relationship with my sister, though, was outside affection and family bonds; it was a mystic union; after all, we had begun life together even before we had made our appearance in the world. We were in a way necessary to each other. I sensed that in her letters. She had a husband and I was sure she loved him, but that was not enough for her. She needed me too; and in my way I needed her.

I tried to explain this to my parents because I was aware of my good fortune in possessing such; I did not have to, because my mother immediately understood and told me that she was happy it should be so. Much as she hated parting from me and my sister, our happiness was of far greater importance to her than her own sorrow, and the fact that there was this bond between us had always been a great comfort to her.

‘Your father is staying for some time,’ she told me, ‘and Fennimore will not go to sea again in the foreseeable future. I am content with that, and if you can be happy with Angelet, my darling child, it is all I ask.’

I told Phoebe I was going and did not mention that she would come with me, and for a few moments I savoured her desolation which parting with me would bring her.

Then I said: ‘You foolish girl, you are coming with me. I shall need a maid, and can you think I would take anyone else?’

She fell on her knees—she was a little dramatic, poor Phoebe—and clasped my skirts, which was a most awkward and undignified posture, as I told her sharply. She rose then, her eyes shining with admiration.

It was small wonder that life was growing rosy for me.

I wrote and told Angelet that I should soon be setting out, and that brought an ecstatic response. She longed to see me. She could not wait for me. She had so much to tell me.

There was a letter which amused me from the General which was addressed to my parents. It was extremely stilted and precise, written in handwriting which was small and neat and yet somehow bold.

He would welcome me, he said. I would be a great comfort to Angelet, who had just had this unfortunate experience. He was discreetly referring to the child she had lost. He had mapped out my journey, which he was able to do with some knowledge, for he travelled the country a good deal in the course of his duty. He mentioned the most satisfactory inns with accounts of their virtues and shortcomings.

I was very amused. The Monarch’s Head in Dorchester was a worthy stopping-place; they would care well for the horses. The White Horse in Taunton was another good inn, and so on. My final resting-place should be at the Bald-Faced Stag in the village of Hampton, and I should reach it, if I followed his route, on the thirtieth of August, providing I left on the date I had suggested.

My mother said, ‘I think he is the sort of man who would take good care of his wife, as he has gone to such trouble to make your journey easy.’

I was amused. Poor Angelet! I thought. No wonder she is in need of comfort.

The Juice of the Poppy

MY SPIRITS WERE HIGH as I set out. My mother was a little sad but determined not to show it, and with my father beside her she could not be completely so. They, with my brother Fennimore, were in the courtyard when I mounted, and as I turned to take a last look at my mother I wondered when I should see her again.

Phoebe was almost ecstatic. She was with me, which seemed all she needed to make her happy, and I think too she was secretly relieved to be leaving and putting so many miles between her and her self-righteous father, for she had lived in terror of the blacksmith’s catching her one day and taking her back to the life from which she had escaped.

It was a lovely morning. Whenever I smell the pungent odour of water mint I shall remember it; whenever I see barber’s bush growing at random on wasteland I shall experience that feeling of wild exhilaration which was with me then.

Phoebe and I rode together between two grooms in the lead and two behind, and I felt like singing as we went along.

I said to Phoebe: ‘I am longing to see my brother-in-law. I fear he is a very stern gentleman. I wonder what he will think of us.’

‘He will admire you, Mistress Bersaba.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘He must do because you’re the living image of the lady he married.’

‘Oh, but she hasn’t been ill. There will be a difference.’

‘Your illness has made you more beautiful, mistress.’

‘Now, Phoebe, that’s too much!’

‘’Tis true in an odd sort of way, mistress. You’re thinner and it makes you look taller and graceful like, and then too … I don’t know. It does, I know it’s true.’

‘You are a good girl, Phoebe,’ I said, ‘but I like to have the truth, even when I don’t like what it tells me.’

‘I swear it, mistress, and Jem was saying the same. He said: “My word, Mistress Bersaba’s illness have done something for her.” I don’t know what, mistress, but ’tis true.’

‘Jem?’

‘Him in the stables, mistress.’

Oh, I thought, so I appeal to stable boys, do I!

But I was happy, because although Phoebe was prejudiced, the stable boy had said that; and it was a comfort even from such quarters.

Our journey was uneventful, taking in the usual mishaps which one does not expect to travel without. One of the horses went lame and we sold it and replaced it from a dealer in one of the Wiltshire horsemarkets; some of the roads were flooded which meant making a detour; another was forced on us when we heard that a certain notorious highwayman was reputed to be lurking nearby. The road across Salisbury Plain was a distance of forty miles, but there again we delayed our journey that we might not be too far from inns and villages, and this added miles.

I was amazed, though, by the accuracy of the General’s instructions, and oddly enough when we reached the Bald-Faced Stag on the thirtieth of August I felt a kind of triumph, as though I had taken a challenge and proved something.

The host was expecting us.

‘General Tolworthy was sure that you would come this day or the next, and he has asked me to reserve the best room for you,’ he told us.

It was indeed a pleasant room, its walls panelled, its windows leaded and the ceiling beams of heavy oak. In it was a four-poster bed, the usual court cupboard, a chest, a small table and two chairs, so it was very adequately furnished. Phoebe would sleep in a small adjoining room. It could not have been more comfortable.

An excellent meal awaited us, of sturgeon, pigeon pie and roast beef served with a good malmsey wine. I was hungry after a day in the saddle, and as the long and arduous journey was in its last stages the thought of seeing Angelet the next day made me wildly happy.

I had retired to my room, where Phoebe had taken out the things I should need for the night, and I sat on the window-seat which overlooked the yard, looking down at the activity below. I saw a carrier coach for the first time. These, I had heard, could only be hired in London and they did journeys of no more than thirty miles’ radius. All travellers had to be prepared to stay at certain selected inns where the horses could be properly looked after. The descending passengers looked tired, and I supposed only those who could not afford to travel in any other way would go by carrier coach.

A man rode into the courtyard. Tall and of commanding appearance, he wore his fair hair on to his shoulders and he had a small moustache brushed away from his lips. He was elegantly but not foppishly dressed. There was something which I could only call magnetism about him of which I was immediately aware.

On impulse I opened the window and leaned out, and at that moment he looked up and saw me.

I cannot explain what happened because I did not understand it and I had never experienced it before. I felt a response in every part of my body. It seemed absurd that someone whom I did not know and whom I had not met until that moment and had only looked at for a few seconds could have this effect on me. But it was so. We seemed to gaze at each other for a long time but it could have been only for a few seconds.

Then he took off his hat and bowed.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment and immediately moved backwards and shut the window. I went to the table on which stood a mirror, and I stared at myself. The scar on my cheek seemed to stand out white against the scarlet of my skin.

What happened? I asked myself. I only knew that he aroused in me some great emotion which I could not understand.

I went back to the window but he had disappeared. He must have come into the inn.

He was obviously staying here and I wanted to see him again. I wanted to know what had happened to me. It was extraordinary. One did not feel this odd emotion—why not admit it, desire—for someone to whom one had not spoken a word. Yet somehow I thought I knew him. He had not seemed like a stranger to me.

I wondered what he had thought when he had looked up and had seen me.

I patted down my fringe and smoothed my hair, but it would not cover the scar on my left cheek. When I descended the stairs I saw him at once. He saw me too, for he came forward smiling.

‘I knew you at once,’ he said. ‘The likeness to your sister is amazing.’

‘You are …’

‘Richard Tolworthy. I thought I would come here to meet you and take you back to Far Flamstead tomorrow.’

My emotions were mixed. What did the future hold then? I knew my nature. I sometimes wished that I did not. I would have to live under the same roof with this man, and he was my sister’s husband.

He had ordered that a room be kept clear for us that we might talk. The landlord had lighted a fire because he said it grew chilly in the evenings, and insisted on bringing us more of the malmsey wine of which he was very proud, and we sat at the table.

‘How glad I am that you have come,’ he said. ‘Angelet has been pining for you. And how like her you are! I could almost believe she is sitting there now, but of course there is a difference—a great difference.’

I could not read the thoughts in his eyes; he was not a man to betray much, so I could not ascertain what sort of impact I had made on him; I was still staggering from that which he had made on me.

I watched his fingers curl about the glass—long fingers, almost artistic, strong yet delicate, not, I should have thought, the hands of the soldier; there were fine golden hairs on the backs of them and I felt a longing to touch them.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There is a great difference. My illness has left its mark on me forever.’

He did not deny that he could see the pock mark. I knew that he was straightforward and would never flatter.

All he said was: ‘You were fortunate to recover.’

‘I had expert nursing. My mother was determined that I should get well and so was my maid.’

‘Angelet has told me.’

‘She must have told you a good deal about me.’ I suddenly began to wonder how I appeared to Angelet, how much she knew of me. I believed I understood her through and through. Did she understand me? No, Angelet would never probe into the secret minds of those about her. She saw everything black and white, good and bad. Did she adore her General? I wondered. I thought of them together, making love.

‘She told me about your illness and how you contracted it.’

I thought: She would make me appear a heroine. I wondered if he thought me so. He would not for long. I could see that he was a man it would not be easy to deceive.

‘I am so pleased that you have come. Angelet is a little depressed at this time.’

‘Yes, the miscarriage. How ill was she?’

‘Not seriously, but of course she was disappointed.’

‘As you too must have been.’

‘She will soon be well again. We are living quietly at the moment. My duties have taken me up to the north. The times are somewhat unsettled.’

I did know that. I had always been more interested in political matters than Angelet had.

‘Yes, I understand that there are elements in the country who are not pleased with the manner in which its affairs are being conducted.’

‘Scotland is the trouble at the moment.’

I was glad I had been reading a great deal during my illness. ‘Is the King wrong, do you think, to enforce the use of the prayerbook?’

‘The King is the King,’ he said. ‘He is the ruler and it is the duty of his subjects to accept him as such.’

‘It seems strange,’ I said, ‘that there should be revolt in the very country which nurtured his father.’

‘The Stuarts are Scottish and therefore there are some English who do not care for them. And the Scots complain that the King has become too English. There have been riots up there, and the fact is we do not have enough money to equip the kind of army we need to subdue Scotland.’

‘And this of course gives you great concern and, I doubt not, takes you frequently from home.’

‘Of course a soldier must always be prepared to leave his home.’

‘It seems a pity to quarrel over religion.’

‘Many of the wars in history have been connected with it.’

I tried to talk intelligently about the affairs of the country and managed tolerably well by subtly leaving him to do the talking. All the time I was learning about him. He was not a man given to light conversation, but he was soon telling me about his campaigns in Spain and France, and I listened avidly, not so much because I was interested in the manner in which battles were fought, but because I wanted to know more of him.

We talked for an hour—or rather he did and I listened; and I knew that I had made an impression, for he seemed a little surprised by himself.

He said: ‘How knowledgeable you are of these matters. One rarely meets a woman who is.’

‘I have become knowledgeable tonight,’ I answered; and I did not mean only of the wars in France and Spain.

‘I came to welcome you,’ he said, ‘and to conduct you to Far Flamstead tomorrow. I had no idea that I should pass such an interesting evening. I have enjoyed it.’

‘It is because you find me so much like your wife.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I find you very different. The only real likeness is in your looks.’

‘We can be told apart … now,’ I said, touching the scar on my cheek.

‘You have honourable battle scars,’ he said. ‘You must wear them boldly.’

‘How can I do otherwise?’

He leaned forward suddenly and said: ‘Let me tell you. They add an interest to your face. I am so pleased that you have come to stay with us and I hope your visit will be of long duration.’

‘You should reserve judgment until you know me better. Sometimes guests in the house can be quite tiresome.’

‘My wife’s sister is not a guest. She is a member of the family and will always be welcome however long she wishes to stay.’

‘That, General, is a rash statement and I should never have believed you guilty of rashness.’

‘How can you know? We have only just met.’

‘But this is no ordinary meeting.’

For a moment we looked full at each other. I believed my eyes were glowing warmly. His were cold. To him I was merely his wife’s sister and he was pleased that I was not unintelligent. That was as far as his cautious mind would take him. But it was not all. No. Perhaps I was more knowledgeable than he was in spite of the difference in our ages. Sometimes I believe that women such as I am are born with knowledge in the matter of this attraction between the sexes. I knew that somewhere, latent perhaps beneath that glacial exterior, there could be passion.

I thought of how I had teased Bastian, how I had withstood temptation with him; and now I knew of course that Bastian had meant nothing to me. I had merely penetrated briefly the edge of discovery.

I said: ‘I have known you through my sister, for you appeared frequently in her letters, so you see you are not a stranger to me. Moreover, my sister and I are twins … identical twins. There is a bond so strong between us that the experiences of one are felt by the other.’

I stood up. He took my hand in his and said earnestly: ‘I hope that you enjoy your stay with us.’

‘I know I shall,’ I assured him.

He conducted me to my room where Phoebe was waiting. She swept a curtsey to the General and I left him at my bedroom door.

I went to the bed and sat down. Phoebe came and unbuttoned my gown.

‘You like the gentleman.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I like the gentleman.’

‘He was down there alone with you …’

‘And you think that was wrong, do you, Phoebe?’

‘Mistress, ’tis not for me …’

I laughed at her. ‘You concern yourself unduly, Phoebe. The gentleman in question is General Tolworthy, my sister’s husband and therefore my brother-in-law.’

Phoebe looked at me with wide eyes for a few seconds, then she lowered them quickly, but not before I had seen the apprehension there.

I was sure that Phoebe knew that I had had adventures. As a girl who had had her own, she would have noticed that strange elation in me; moreover, she would know what it meant. She may have felt it herself when she lingered in the cornfields with the man who had fathered the child who had been her disgrace and her salvation.

I could not sleep that night. I kept going over our conversation in my mind. His face haunted me: the outline of his features, the fine but well-marked brows, the cold glitter of the blue eyes, the correct manner, the absence of any awareness that I was a woman; and yet … there was something … some little spark of understanding, some rapport that flashed between us.

I reversed our positions. Suppose I had been the one who had come to Carlotta, suppose Angelet had been the one who had caught smallpox. I would have been his wife. Or should I? Why had he chosen her? She told me about her adventure in the streets of London. I could imagine that when he rescued and protected her, her helplessness would have appealed to him. I suppose had my purse been snatched I should have attempted to retrieve it. Suppose then that I had been Angelet and his wife. Angelet would be lying in this bed now coming to stay with me.

I had to know what it was like between them. Was he in love with her and she with him?

I should soon discover when I lived in that house with them. And what would be the result of my living there?

I tried to talk to myself secretly: You know your nature. You need to be married. Phoebe knows it. Perhaps she does also. Should I try to find a husband for her … someone who will adore me for giving him the opportunity of marrying Phoebe and coming into my service? Why did I always want people to admire me? Why couldn’t I be simple and uncomplicated like Angelet? But perhaps she was no longer so simple. She had married; she had slept in this man’s bed; she would have born his child if something had not gone wrong. She must have changed.

Did I not know myself? I had been ill for so long and I was suddenly awakened to life. I had flirted with Bastian again, and although my pride would not let me take him as a lover, I had wanted to. But then it was not necessarily Bastian I had wanted. Now I met this man and he was different from anyone I had known. He was not like the Kroll boys and the Lamptons with whom I had grown up. There was a remoteness about him which intrigued me; he was worldly; he had lived; he had fought battles and faced death. He fascinated me, therefore. And he was my sister’s husband, and because of this strange relationship between us which I do not altogether understand I must have this feeling for him.

At last I slept and I was awakened by Phoebe in the early morning because we were to leave the inn precisely at seven of the clock.

We breakfasted together, and talked easily as we had before.

He told me of his home in the north, and I told him I could imagine his ancestors defending their homes against the Picts. He had a look of the Dane about him, and I said that his ancestors must have come in their long ships and ravaged our coasts.

He said that may have been but they claimed to have come with William the Conqueror, and we talked about war and how it had always existed in the world. I said how much better it might be if these matters could be settled in other ways.

As a soldier he could not see how else they could be settled because there would always be people who would not keep their word and the only real way of enforcing law and order was by force.

‘It’s strange,’ I said, ‘that to produce peace one must go to war.’

‘Antidotes are often like that,’ he told me. ‘I have learned something of the use of herbs, and you find that the effects of one poison are often nullified by the action of another.’

Then he talked about herbs and how he had often used them after battles, and so the breakfast hour passed quickly.

We were to leave at seven and we did—on the stroke. I was amused at his precision. I guessed that unpunctuality was something which would seem almost a crime to him, and I wondered how Angelet fared because punctuality had never been one of her virtues.

I rode beside him, and I thanked him for the courtesy of coming to the Bald-Faced Stag to escort me to his home. He waved that aside and said that of course he would come to meet his new sister and it had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience. His face was very earnest as he said: ‘I hope you will not find it too quiet at Far Flamstead. Later we shall go to my residence in Whitehall and there of course you will meet people from the Court. At this time I feel that Angelet needs to regain her strength and I wish her to live quietly.’

‘Of course. I live in the country, which I imagine is far quieter than Far Flamstead, so you need have no fears on that score.’

‘I am sure your coming is going to be of great benefit to us both.’

He pointed out the features of the landscape as we passed along, and I was struck by the difference in the country from that to which I was accustomed. Our trees bore the marks of their battles with the south-west gales; here in the south east of England, the trees—lime, plane, horsechestnut—seemed stately; there was a neatness about them, as though their branches had been trimmed, and although the grass might seem of less verdant green than ours—but only slightly so—fields often gave the impression that the grass had just been cut. There was almost an elegance about it which our rougher Cornish landscape lacked.

And finally we came to Far Flamstead, I noticed his pride when he pointed it out … a gracious house, clearly built during the early years of the great Queen—red brick, half timbered with latticed windows, surrounded by pleasant gardens.

I caught a glimpse of a grey tower and I cried: ‘That must be the castle of which Angelet told me.’

Because I was so much aware of him and had become most susceptible to his changing moods, I knew he was sorry I had mentioned the castle. There was something about it which disturbed him.

‘It’s a ruin, isn’t it?’

‘Hardly that. A folly is a better description.’

‘Which means something that is useless.’

‘Oh … er … yes, of course.’

‘Doesn’t it take up space which could be used for other purposes?’

‘My ancestor built it and there is a legend about it. It is not to be disturbed.’

‘Because if it were it would bring ill luck to the family or something like that?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Are you superstitious?’

‘We all are at times. Those who declare they are not are often proved to be more so than the rest of us. It is a natural instinct for mankind to be superstitious. Imagine him when understanding first began to dawn on him. He was afraid … afraid of the moon, afraid of the sun, afraid of the wild beasts which roamed the land, and out of fear superstition grew. It’s a natural instinct.’

‘So you believe that while we have something to fear we shall be superstitious about it. I know. There is a legend that while the castle remains all will go well with the house.’

He was silent; and I longed to know the real truth about the castle.

But now we were riding into the courtyard and there was my sister.

‘Bersaba,’ she called. I dismounted and she flung herself into my arms.

We talked. How we talked! There was so much to say. She must know what had happened at home since she had left, but she was not more anxious than I to hear what had happened to her.

Life at home had gone on much as usual, I told her. I had been sick and spent a great deal of my time in my bedchamber, as she knew. Our father had come home and with him Fennimore and Bastian, and neither of the younger men would go to sea again.

She told me of her arrival at Carlotta’s house, of her adventure in the streets when she had been rescued by Richard; she spoke of his courtship and their marriage and how she had come to Far Flamstead to be mistress of it.

But although she talked incessantly and described in detail, she told me nothing of her relationship with her husband. In fact I noticed a certain reluctance in her to do so.

She took me into a charming bedchamber which she called the Lavender Room and which was to be mine. The curtains about the bed were embroidered with sprigs of lavender, as were the curtains, and the rugs were of a delicate shade of mauve.

Next to it was the Blue Room, which she used as a bedroom often.

‘Not always?’

‘No.’ She was faintly embarrassed. ‘I have slept in it … since … Not always, of course. But after my miscarriage I had to rest a good deal, and it was decided that I ought to have a bedroom of my own.’

‘Apart,’ I said, ‘from the connubial chamber.’

‘Well … yes. It’s a very restful room.’

There was that about my sister which was still virginal, and it was hard to believe that she had been married and but for an accident might have been about to become a mother.

The Blue Room was charming—very much like the Lavender Room. I wondered whether it had been Richard Tolworthy’s idea that she should have this retreat.

She talked about the events which led up to her miscarriage and how she had heard it said that the castle was haunted, and one night seeing a light there she had gone up to the Castle Room to look. She had seen … something … she was not quite sure what. A face, she had thought, and oddly enough she believed she had seen the face before. The servants were convinced that she had had a nightmare, but she didn’t really think that was so. In any case she had had a fright and they said that had brought on her miscarriage.

I remembered the strange look in Richard Tolworthy’s face when he had talked of the castle, and I longed to know more about it, because I felt that in learning that I would know more about him.

Those first days were full of vivid impressions. I rode out with my sister and she showed me the Longridge Farmhouse.

Richard had ridden over, she told me, to thank them for what they had done for her, although relations were strained between them. She told me how Richard had once challenged Luke Longridge to a duel.

‘A duel,’ I cried, because this seemed to shed a new light on his character. I could not imagine his being romantically rash. ‘What? Was it over a woman?’

Angelet laughed. ‘Certainly not. Luke Longridge was disloyal to the King.’

‘I see your husband is an ardent Royalist,’ I commented.

She was thoughtful. ‘He is a soldier and his duty is to be loyal to the King.’

Yes, I thought. He was a man who would always act conventionally. He might not admire the King but he served him and therefore would defend him to the death if need be.

He was the sort of man who would adhere strictly to the conventions.

So I rode and walked and talked with Angelet. Sometimes when the evenings were drawing in I would see a certain apprehension in her eyes. Sometimes I would go quietly to the door of her room and peep inside. If she were not there I would know that she was in what I called the connubial bed with him.

Once he spent a night away and I was struck with her relief. Yet when she talked of him her eyes glowed with such admiration that anyone would have said that she was deeply in love with him.

I tried to sound her about that side of her relationship with him.

‘Soon,’ I said, ‘we shall be hearing you are with child again.’

I saw the shiver pass through her.

‘What’s the matter, Angelet? You want children, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And he … your husband?’

‘Yes, naturally he wants children.’

‘Well then, since you both do …’

She turned away from me, but I caught her arm. ‘Are you happy, Angel?’

‘Of course.’

‘Marriage is everything you want … everything …’

I made her look at me, for she had never been able to lie to me. Now I could see that blankness in her eyes which showed me she was trying to hide something.

‘There are things about marriage,’ she said, ‘of which you would be ignorant.’

I felt laughter bubbling up inside me.

‘Such as?’ I asked.

‘I can’t explain. You will have to wait until you have a husband yourself.’

I knew then what I had suspected. These urgent passions which had overcome me were something of which she had no conception. Perhaps when we had been born nature had divided certain qualities and had robbed one to give the other the lion’s share.

From that moment the situation became clear to me. I knew that my sister had endured with stoicism those occasions which her contract had forced her to spend in the marriage bed. I wondered what effect her attitude had on him. He must be aware of it and it would give little comfort to him.

I looked forward to the evenings when he was with us. I played chess with him and now and then beat him. That surprised him a little but at the same time he was pleased.

He would show us how he had fought and won battles by bringing out his miniature soldiers and placing them on a mock battlefield.

I watched intently, determined to gain his attention. I would ask questions about the tactics and once expressed doubts as to the wisdom of employing them. Those well-marked eyebrows would shoot up as he talked to me, as though amazed at my temerity in questioning a professional soldier.

Once I took the infantry and placed it in another position. Instead of reproving me or trying to stop me, he said: ‘Then in that case I should have brought the cavalry over here.’

‘The infantry is behind this ridge of hills,’ I pointed out. ‘Your cavalry would not have been aware that they had changed position.’

‘They would have seen.’

‘No, they moved by night.’

‘My spies would have informed me.’

‘Ah, but my spies recognized your spies. You have used the same men too often. They misled you and you are under the impression that they are concealed by this ridge. They moved silently on to another.’

I saw the glint in his eyes as mine met his and held them.

‘What do you know of battle?’ he demanded.

‘Battle is strategy and tactics. A woman, you know, is rather skilled in these arts.’

He was amused and, I knew, excited; and we played out our mock battles.

Angelet sat in her chair watching us.

Afterwards she said to me, ‘You shouldn’t have talked like that to Richard. It was rather arrogant, wasn’t it? As though you know as much about fighting battles as he does.’

‘They are only battles with toy soldiers.’

‘They are real to him. He is reconstructing battles he has fought and won.’

‘Then it is well for him to have an opposing general to outwit him.’

‘You … Bersaba!’

‘Yes,’ I retorted, ‘why not?’

‘I don’t think he was very pleased.’

But of course he was, and we went on playing our games on the mock battlefields and the chessboard. I looked forward to those evenings when I would be so aware of him and try to make him aware of me. Then when I was alone at night I would think of him, and I knew that that terrible fascination which I had felt when we had first met had by no means diminished. In fact it grew every day.

Once Angelet said to me: ‘Richard was talking of you last night.’

‘Yes?’ I asked eagerly. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said that we must entertain. He would rather we did it in London, though. He said that would be more interesting.’

‘But you said he was talking of me.’

‘It was of you. He said we should find a husband for you.’

I felt angry with him and I said: ‘Does he want me out of the house?’

‘Oh no, Bersaba. You mustn’t think that. He likes to have you here because he knows I do. He said you are amusing and attractive and ought to be married. Just for now he wants us to stay here because of my health. He doesn’t think I’m well enough yet for anything but the quiet life.’

He had said I was amusing and attractive, but he wanted to find a husband for me.

I felt half pleased yet half angry and frustrated.

I was uneasy about this household of servants. Had I been mistress of Far Flamstead I should have wanted to know more of them. The chief ones, of course, were the Cherrys and the man Jesson. The latter was a silent-footed, self-effacing yet efficient man of whom one saw so little that one was inclined to forget he existed. He was a sort of grey eminence, I imagined, for the servants spoke of him with awe. His daughters were very much in evidence. Meg was Angelet’s personal maid and her sister Grace was a sort of part-time midwife, according to Angelet. Her services would not be in great demand in the house as most of the servants were men, but she would be useful if Angelet ever needed her. She had a great belief in Grace’s wisdom, for it seemed the woman had known she was pregnant before Angelet had been sure of it herself.

I thought how like Richard it was to have a house managed by his own sex. All these men had served under him at some time, I gathered, and had left the army for some reason. He would be their benefactor and would reason, in his cold analytical way, that they would doubtless give him better service because of this.

Mrs Cherry and her husband seemed a conventional couple enough—she in charge of the kitchens and he acting with Jesson as a general factotum. I had to admit the house was run smoothly. Every clock kept exact time and meals were served precisely on the stroke of the intended hour. It was amusing. Angelet scarcely behaved like the mistress of the house, for she had made no changes. I thought I should have done so just to show these people that I was the mistress.

There was no doubt that I was regarded with some interest and, I imagined, mild suspicion. I would often find Mrs Cherry’s eyes watching me with a wary look in them as though she were pondering on what I would do next.

I had been fascinated by the castle from the first and became more so when Angelet told me not to approach it as it was a ruin in danger of collapse and Richard had given firm orders that no one was to go near it. She told me she believed he would be very angry if any of us disobeyed his orders.

She took me up to the Castle Room which had been used by his first wife. A brief marriage that had only lasted a year before she died in childbirth.

What did she know of the wife? I asked. Had she learned anything about her?

Very little, she answered. People didn’t talk about her. She had died more than ten years ago.

‘And Richard? Don’t you ask him?’

‘I don’t think he would like that.’

‘You are a very good wife, I’m sure, Angelet. Do you always do as he wishes?’

‘Of course. Why does that amuse you?’

‘I was just thinking that were I in your place I would at times be a little rebellious.’

‘You would not. You have not been married and know nothing of the relationship between a man and his wife. Naturally I wish to please him in all things …’

Her voice faltered. Oh yes, little sister, I thought. You want to serve him in all things, even though it is so distressing for you to submit to his embraces.

The situation amused and intrigued me; and there was the perpetual excitement of his presence. I found that all through the day I was waiting for the evening—those seemingly quiet evenings when Angelet sat at her embroidery and he and I talked or played out our battles on the chessboard or paper battleground.

I read some of the books I found in his library. He discovered me there one day, coming upon me rather silently and looking over my shoulder.

‘What are you reading, Bersaba?’ he asked.

I showed him.

‘And it interests you?’

‘Enormously.’

‘You should have been a soldier.’

‘They do not recruit women, I believe.’

‘There is certainly one woman I know who would be as efficient as any man.’

‘I might not excel on the battleground but I should like to plan the battles.’

‘You would be a general without delay.’

The faint lift of the lips was gratifying, for he was a man who did not smile very much. I wondered why. Was it because life had been difficult for him? I longed to know. I was not sure whether I was in love with him. I knew that I wanted to be with him, that I wanted him to make love to me so fervently that this obscured all other feelings. It had not been like this with Bastian. There had been no mystery about my cousin. I knew everything of importance that had happened throughout his life. But here was my sister’s husband with that immense physical attraction which had overwhelmed me from the moment I had seen him and was growing every day. It was enhanced by that cool exterior, but being the woman I was I knew that was but a covering—a protective one perhaps—a disguise such as he would employ in battle tactics. Every day I learned something of him because I made him the subject of my main interest. He was conventional in the extreme; he had been brought up to believe in certain ideals and he would never swerve from them, although he was extremely logical in all other matters. Loyalty to the King and the family would remain. I admired him for this and yet I felt a perverse desire to break through them. Something had happened to him—something tragic, I knew that. Often I fancied that the secret was in this house. These servants of his—the Cherrys and the Jessons—did they know anything? They had been in his service for a long time. His young wife had died in childbed. Had he loved her tenderly, passionately? What a tragedy to lose both his wife and the child he had longed for … for he was the sort of man who would want sons. It would certainly be a tradition of the family to carry on the line. There was a younger brother in the north at Flamstead Castle, I gathered. I suppose he visited him there when he went on his travels. Why had he waited ten years after his first wife’s death before he had married? And why Angelet? Was she pretty? It was hard to say when you are judging a face so like your own. She had an innocence which I lacked. She would always have it. It went with her virginal nature. She was loving, emotional, romantic—and passionless. Once again I pictured nature neatly dividing our characteristics. ‘That one for you, Angelet, that for Bersaba.’ Gentleness, mildness, simplicity for Angelet. And for Bersaba an overwhelming sensuality which when at its pitch blindly demanded satisfaction without thought of consequences. That comes first and that force will govern her life. For the rest she is selfish; she is proud; she is arrogant. But she has a lively mind and an ability to learn and perhaps—but she is not yet sure of this—an ability to get what she wants.

But she is not all bad, I defended. I touched the scars of my brow and I thought of how the determination to save Phoebe had seemed more important to me than anything, although I had not known of course when I set out on that journey in the rain to bring the midwife what effect it was going to have on my life. Would I have gone then? Certainly not. I was not all that noble.

So the days passed and I had been in the house a month. Angelet still professed herself to tire easily, and I knew that this was to excuse herself from sharing the big four-poster bed with her husband. He was never insistent, I was sure.

She was always hoping that she would become pregnant, though. She did want a child. She would make a very good mother, I was sure, and I fancy too that she believed that if she conceived she could reasonably hope to escape from those nightly embraces.

Then temptation came suddenly and without warning.

During the day a messenger came for Richard and he left for Whitehall immediately, telling us that he thought he might well be back the following afternoon.

I felt depressed because the day would be empty without him, and I wondered how I would get through it. I could not sit as Angelet could for hours over a piece of needlework. I would read as long as the light was good; I rode; I walked a little. I enjoyed exploring the grounds and I often found myself skirting the castle surrounded by its high wall, the top of which I discovered was covered in small pieces of broken glass. Richard had certainly gone to great lengths to prevent anyone’s gaining access to the castle over that wall.

During the afternoon Angelet and I had arranged to ride out together, but Meg came to my room when I was about to change into my riding-habit to say that my sister wanted to speak to me. She was in the Blue Room and I went to her at once. She was lying on her bed looking very sorry for herself, and I saw the reason was a swelling on the left side of her face.

‘It’s toothache, mistress,’ said Meg. ‘My lady has had it all the morning.’

I went over to Angelet; her eyes were half closed and she was evidently in some pain.

‘You want some of Mother’s camomile concoction,’ I said. ‘It never fails.’

‘Mrs Cherry has a good one,’ said Meg. ‘She be clever with herbs.’

‘I’ll go and see her,’ I said.

Mrs Cherry was in the kitchen, rosy from baking. She gave me that quick look of suspicion which I had noticed previously, before her features settled into the benign mask of friendly bonhomie.

‘Mrs Cherry,’ I said, ‘my sister is suffering from a raging toothache. Meg says you have something for it.’

‘Why, bless you, mistress, indeed I have. I’ve got my own little stillroom here. I can give her something that’ll send her to sleep and that’s going to soothe the tooth.’

‘My mother made a mixture of camomile and poppy juice and something else. It was most effective.’

‘Mine has these. It’ll cure it in time, but she may need a dose or two.’

‘Could you please give it to me.’

‘With the greatest of pleasure, mistress.’

She gave me the bottle with the mixture in it and I took it immediately to my sister. I smelt it. It was slightly different from the one our mother made.

‘Take this, Angelet,’ I said, ‘and then you’ll sleep.’

She obeyed and I sat with her for a while until she went to sleep. I stood over her bed looking at her. She looked so young and innocent lying there in that deep sleep. Her hair had fallen away from her smooth white brow. I felt my fingers go involuntarily to my own. If people saw us lying side by side they would tell the difference. The scarred one is Bersaba. I felt a sudden wild envy because she was his wife, and I could think of nothing I wanted more than to be just that. Then I thought of the frightened look which used to come into her eyes when darkness fell and the excuses she would make to stay in the Blue Room, and I was sorry for her.

I went out to the stables and told the groom to saddle my horse. He wanted to come with me because it was understood that neither I nor Angelet would ride out alone; but I had to be alone. I wanted to think what I was doing here and how long I was going to stay.

I thought of his coming back. He might say: ‘We are going to Whitehall. There we shall entertain. I will bring interesting people to my house; perhaps we shall find a husband for Bersaba.’

There was an anger in my heart for a fate which had used me so unkindly—which had scarred me and then brought me, after he had become my sister’s husband, to the man whom I wanted as I believed I never would another. My nature was such that it needed fulfilment, I was beginning to know myself. I cared nothing for Bastian. I never had. I had been mistaken in a certain natural need and called it love.

But Richard Tolworthy obsessed me. I thought of him during the night and day; and such as this one when he was away, was a day without meaning. I suppose this was what people called being in love.

I rode on without taking much notice of where I went. I was saying to myself: I must write to my mother. I must go home. I can’t stay here. It is unwise and I don’t know to what it might lead. I would say that Angelet was getting well and I missed my home.

A man was riding towards me. As he drew up he lifted his hat and bowed to me.

‘Good day to you,’ he said. ‘It’s long since you called on us.’

I looked at him in amazement and he returned my gaze. Then understanding dawned on me.

‘You must be mistaking me for my sister. I am Bersaba Landor.’

‘Indeed. It is so? Mistress Tolworthy has mentioned that she had a twin sister.’

‘I am that twin sister.’

‘Then I am happy to make your acquaintance and so will my sister be. Would you care to call on her? Our farmhouse is but half a mile away.’

I was ready for such an adventure on this day of emptiness and I expressed my readiness to meet his sister.

I studied him as we rode while he chatted in a rather reserved manner about the crops and the harvest. I could always be interested in other people’s affairs. It was a quality I had which made up for the lack of that sweetness (of which Angelet had taken the major share) and while she would have expressed polite interest, it would have been clear that her mind was wandering off somewhere else. But mine was a genuine desire to learn what people were doing and this was one of the reasons why I sometimes seemed to win people’s admiration, for there is nothing to delight them more than a show of interest for their concerns.

I gathered at once that this man, who introduced himself as Luke Longridge, was a Puritan. His dress proclaimed him as that, and when I met his sister in her plain grey gown I was convinced of this.

The farmhouse was cosy, and I was given some of their home-made brew and hot cakes to go with it, which was pleasant, and the sister, Ella, asked after Angelet. I told them of the toothache and they in their turn wished their condolences to be taken to her. I heard from Ella what I had already heard from Angelet, how my sister had ridden over and been taken ill there at the time of her miscarriage.

I asked a great deal of questions about the farm and learned that that January had been a very bad time, as the inclement weather had made lambing difficult, and how busy they had been planting runcival or marrowfat peas. The barley sowing had gone well in March, and Ella had had her hands full in April, as she always did, sowing flax and hemp and of course the herbs in her own garden. Hops were very profitable, and since they had been introduced into the country during the reign of Henry VIII a great many farmers were growing them, although they needed very special attention.

Then we went into the difficulties of the hay and the corn harvests, for which of course they required extra labour and had to call in travelling labourers to give a hand.

I sensed, though, that the real interest of this household was not so much farming as politics, and I realized that Luke Longridge had a burning desire to make his opinions known.

He was a reformer. That was obvious. I must compare him with Richard Tolworthy for I compared all men with him. Richard’s mind ran along the lines it knew it should go. He was a strong man, with firm ideals. Luke Longridge was a rebel against those very conventions which Richard upheld so strongly.

I thought suddenly of what Angelet had told me about a man she had seen in a pillory, his face blooded because someone, by order of the law, had just deprived him of his ears.

I said: ‘I suppose one should be careful of making too much comment lest it come to mischievous ears.’

He smiled and I saw a fanatical light in his eyes. This man would be a martyr if the occasion arose to demand it. I had always thought martyrdom foolish, for what good did it do to die for a cause? Surely it was much better to live and fight for it in secret? I said something of this, and I saw an expression in his eyes which I realize I kindled. I was not quite sure what it meant but I was aware of it.

I went on to say that I thought that there was peace with the Scots over the matter of religion which had been causing a great deal of trouble there, and he answered that the Parliament of Scotland had confirmed the acts of the general assembly, which was right and fitting, and that they were in communication with some of the leading Puritans in England.

‘Of which you are one,’ I said.

He looked down at his plain garb and said: ‘I can see that you are aware of my opinions.’

‘They are clear to see.’

‘And you come from a Royalist household, so you will doubtless not wish to call on us again.’

‘I would certainly wish to call on you, to hear your arguments. How can one form an opinion unless one hears from both sides?’

‘I doubt the General would wish you to come here to talk politics. He has not forbidden his wife to call, no doubt because my sister was of some use to her when she was ill and he is grateful, but I feel sure he does not wish for regular visits between our families.’

‘The General may command his armies if he wishes but he could not command me.’

I saw the faint colour in his cheeks and I knew that he found it difficult to take his eyes from me. Women such as myself who are attracted by men attract them in turn. Something passes between us. I was aware of it now with Luke Longridge: though my thoughts were obsessed by Richard Tolworthy, strangely enough I could still be interested in Luke Longridge and feel an upsurge of spirits because he, this stern Puritan, was not entirely indifferent to me, although I came from what he called a Royalist background.

So it was an interesting hour I spent in the Longridges’ farm kitchen, and afterwards Luke insisted on riding back with me.

He admonished me mildly as we rode, telling me that it was unwise for me to take solitary rides. ‘There are footpads lurking around,’ he said. ‘A lady alone would be easy prey.’

‘I would never be easy prey, I do assure you.’

‘You do not realize how rough these men can be. I would beg of you to take care.’

‘It is good of you to concern yourself,’ I told him, and he replied: ‘I look forward to more interesting discussions. Do you think I could turn you to our way of thinking in time?’

‘I doubt it,’ I answered. ‘Although I have an open mind.’

We soon came to Far Flamstead. He bowed gravely, and as I took my leave I was aware of that expression in his eyes which I aroused in others and I was amused, he being a Puritan.

The encounter had made something of that dull day. I had discovered that scarred or not I was still attractive.

I went into the Blue Room where Angelet was still asleep. Meg was hovering, and I asked if her mistress had not wakened since she had had the posset.

‘No, she have been in this deep and peaceful sleep, mistress.’

She was still sleeping in the evening and I went down to see Mrs Cherry.

I said: ‘The posset is very potent. Mistress Tolworthy has slept all through the day.’

‘’Tis the poppy juice,’ said Mrs Cherry comfortably. There is nothing like deep sleep to get us through our ills.’

‘Should she have another dose when she awakens?’

‘The tooth will have recovered, I doubt not. But keep the bottle in case she should need it.’

She slept through the night and when I went in to see her she declared her toothache was better.

The next morning we went for a ride and in the afternoon Richard returned. He had a great deal of work to do, we were told, and went to his library.

We supped together in the small parlour and Richard told us that as he thought that he would have to be in Whitehall often it might be a good idea if he stayed there. It would save the journey back and forth from Flamstead.

I asked if the trouble with the Puritans and the Scots had anything to do with his business there.

‘Not any more than other matters,’ he told me. ‘The army is below strength and I am constantly attempting to have that rectified. This entails meetings with the King. There have been too many troubles. The war with Spain was a disaster.’

‘I believe he went into that to gratify his great friend Buckingham.’

‘There is no doubt that Buckingham had immense influence with the King.’

‘His murder, while untimely for him, was timely for England.’

‘Who can say?—But our troubles seem to be rising through the financial embarrassments caused by the wars with France and Spain, and this means that everyone not in the army fails to see the importance of it. This is what I have to drive home.’

‘Perhaps if the King did not govern like an absolute monarch, there would not be this trouble.’

Richard looked earnestly at me. ‘Who shall say?’ he said. ‘But I regret the murmurings against His Majesty. I cannot see that they will bring aught but ill to the land, and I want us to be ready to meet whatever comes.’

‘How knowledgeable you are, Bersaba,’ said Angelet.

‘Knowledgeable enough to realize how little I know,’ I replied. ‘I read a good deal and listen when I can and thus I pick up certain information.’

Richard smiled at me approvingly and, remembering the admiration I had seen in Luke Longridge’s eyes, a glow of confidence came to me, and I think perhaps it was this which made me act as I did.

As she was eating Angelet suddenly put her hand to her cheek.

‘The tooth?’ I asked.

She nodded. Then she said: ‘I had a rather painful tooth while you were away, Richard. Mrs Cherry prescribed one of her possets. I must say, they are good.’

He expressed concern that she had suffered and his pleasure that Mrs Cherry had produced the cure. And we talked of the effects of the ship tax and other such matters which excluded Angelet from the conversation, and when the meal was over he went back to his study to work.

After we had left the supper table Angelet complained of her tooth. Eating had brought it on again and she was in pain. I suggested that she have a dose of Mrs Cherry’s concoction which had done her so much good before and she eagerly agreed that this had helped her once and would do so again. I could see that she was telling herself that if she had violent toothache Richard would not expect her to join him and the thought comforted her considerably. I even wondered whether in some ways she welcomed this painful tooth.

‘He can be told that my tooth is bothering me …’ she began.

‘I’ll send Meg,’ I said.

I helped her undress and myself poured out the liquid. ‘It seems a little more than last time,’ I said.

‘Never mind. It will make me sleep the better.’

She drank it eagerly and it was not long before the poppy juice had its effect. I sat by her bed for a while watching her. I was struck by the youthful innocence of her face; there was a certain smile about her lips which suggested satisfaction, and I knew this was because she had escaped from a situation which was distasteful to her.

I rang the bell for Meg so that she could take a message to the study where Richard was working. She did not answer it. I remembered then that Angelet had said something earlier about her bells being out of order and that it was going to be repaired.

I went to my room, but my thoughts were so full of what was happening between Richard and Angelet that I forgot Meg. I undressed slowly and sat before my mirror for a while. I did not see myself but my sister’s innocent face with that smile of relief on her lips, and I thought how different we were and what I would have given to have been in her place. I remembered then that Richard had not been told of her toothache and that I had promised that Meg should take the message.

On impulse I decided that I would tell him myself. I went quickly to the library, but he was not there. The house seemed very quiet as, with a wildly beating heart, I made my way to their bedroom.

He must have heard my footsteps, for as I lifted my hand to the handle the door was opened. He took my hand and drew me in.

His touch unnerved me. Fleetingly my need of him swept over me, subduing everything else. He did not speak. It was as though some spark had ignited the passion in us both. He drew me to him and then it was too late for me to resist.

‘Angelet … ’ he began softly.

Now was the moment to explain. I almost did … and then it passed. Of course I looked like her. He could not see the scars by candlelight. While I despised myself, I was making a bargain with fate: Let this happen … just once … and I’ll go away … I’ll never come back. I’ll never see him again.

The excitement was intense, for when I was in his arms his response was immediate. I don’t think either of us could have turned back then. I had to give myself up to this overpowering desire. I could think of nothing else. I would leave remorse for the morrow.

Exploration in the Night

I AWOKE WITH THE dawn. He was sleeping beside me and the enormity of what I had done swept over me. I was horrified. It could not be true. I had dreamed it.

Quietly I slipped out of the bed, terrified that he would awaken and see me. What could I say to him? How could I explain?

Trembling, I sped across the room and quietly opened the door. I reached the Lavender Room unobserved, but before entering it I looked in at the Blue Room, where Angelet was sleeping peacefully in her poppy-juice sleep.

I went to my bed and lay there.

You have betrayed your sister’s faith in you, I told myself. Then I wondered: Had he known? Was it possible that he could have been deceived?

How young and inexperienced I had been to think that I had reached the heights with Bastian. My intuition in the inn yard had not been false. We were meant for each other.

What would come out of this? I was torn between a certain exultation and desperate shame. How could I ever explain my feelings to anyone? I was in love with him if love was obsession. I wanted to be with him, to talk to him, to discover his needs and supply them, to learn of everything he did and be beside him throughout his life. How could I go into battle with him? I allowed myself to make the most ridiculous images. I saw myself disguised as a soldier in his army. I would go to his camp secretly in the night as I had gone to his bedchamber last night. Always there would be this adventure of loving and possessing.

The room was growing light and fantasies disappeared in the cold brightness of day. What I had done was unforgivable. Knowing my sister had taken a sleeping draught, I had gone to her husband. It was like something out of the Bible. Retribution would follow. I had committed the sin of fornication and induced him to commit adultery without his knowledge. Or was it? How could I know what he was like with Angelet? What had he thought to find his frigid wife changed into a demanding, passionate woman?

He must have known. What would he do now? I could not guess, for the truth was that although I knew he was the one man in the world for me, I did not know him.

Phoebe had come into the room. I saw her startled eyes go to the bed and her relief when she saw me there. She knew. She had betrayed that much. She must have come in and found my bed not slept in. Perhaps she looked in through the night. I need not fear Phoebe. She was there to protect me.

‘It’s a bright morning, Phoebe,’ I said, trying to make my voice sound natural.

‘Yes, mistress, ’tis very bright.’

She had her back to me while she set down the hot water, and I had a fancy that she did not want to look me in the eyes.

‘I trust my sister’s tooth is better,’ I said. ‘It was very bad last night.’

‘I saw Meg on my way in, mistress,’ she said. ‘Mistress Tolworthy be still sleeping.’

‘A peaceful night will have done her the world of good.’

As I dressed I wondered if my appearance had changed. Surely such an experience would have left its mark. What would it be like facing him? I promised myself that I should know as soon as I saw him if he was aware of what had happened. But surely such a straightforward man would have said so.

His response had been immediate. It was like a river that had been blocked up for years and had broken its banks.

He was in the dining-hall seated at the table.

‘Good day,’ I said.

He stood up and bowed. I could not see his eyes.

‘Good day, Bersaba.’

‘It is a fine one.’

‘Indeed, yes.’

‘Poor Angelet has had a return of her toothache. She is resting.’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said.

I was afraid to meet his eyes. I took a tankard of ale and some cob bread and cold bacon. I was surprised to find that I was hungry.

‘I shall have to go to Whitehall this morning,’ he said. ‘I shall be leaving within the hour.’

‘Another summons?’ I asked.

‘Yes. These are difficult times.’

‘Will it be a long stay?’

‘I think not. I shall soon be making arrangements for Angelet and you to come with me. I think you would enjoy it. It is rather quiet for you here.’

‘I … am happy here,’ I said. There was a faint tremor in my voice. I could not understand him. His expression was blank. He was not the same man whose bed I had shared such a short while ago.

He cannot know, I told myself, and I felt sick with disappointment. Could he possibly have thought some change had come over Angelet? I wondered what he thought of her leaving his bed without a word. Perhaps he would reason that she had awakened with her toothache and had quietly slipped away for her dose of Mrs Cherry’s cure. That did not seem unlikely. I was sure that he could not have regarded me so dispassionately if he had had the slightest suspicion. And yet … how could it be otherwise? Was I wrong? Was Angelet deceiving me? But why should she? No, I knew enough about these matters and about her to realize that she was frigid and passionless. Then how could he believe a woman would change overnight, and if he had discovered his wife to be so different, how could he tear himself away from her to go to Whitehall? Surely he would have wanted to take her with him?

He was an enigma, and I was no nearer to understanding him than I had been before we had become lovers.

‘You say Angelet is sleeping?’ he asked.

‘Yes. The cure has that effect.’

‘Then I’ll not disturb her. Perhaps you will tell her that I have been called away.’

‘I will do that.’

He rose and bowed to me. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I have certain preparations to make.’

I looked after him in dismay. It was an anticlimax to my passionate adventure.

By the time Angelet awoke he had left. I went into her room and she looked at me drowsily.

‘What a long sleep you’ve had!’ I said. ‘There is no doubt about it, Mrs Cherry’s cure is potent. How is the toothache?’

‘It’s gone.’

‘It’s the sleep that does it. It’s so refreshing. By the way, Richard has been called away.’

‘Oh … to Whitehall?’

‘Yes. I saw him at breakfast. He said he wouldn’t disturb you and asked me to tell you.’

‘How long will he be away?’

‘He wasn’t sure. He talked about our going to Whitehall.’

She sat up in bed. She looked rested and very young and I noticed that there was no swelling on her cheek now.

‘We should, of course,’ she said. ‘I want to find a husband for you.’

‘There speaks the matron,’ I said. ‘Are you so pleased with the state of matrimony that you would see everyone else trapped in it?’

I was watching her closely and I saw the faint flush under her skin. I had done her no harm, I promised myself. I had only taken what she did not want.

‘You should be married,’ she said. ‘Mother will expect it.’

‘I dare say Mother would rather I married someone near home. She won’t want to lose both of us.’

‘She will not want what is happier for her but for you. You will make a more suitable match here and I think she would like us to be together.’

I wondered if she would if she knew. Dear Mother, whose love had run so smoothly. How horrified she would be if she knew what had happened last night.

‘Is that what you want, Angel?’

‘You know it is. I feel part of me is missing when you’re not here.’

‘Yes, we are very close together, are we not? We are like one person.’

‘It’s true, and it’s right that we should be together. I hope you will marry someone from the Court. It will have to be a grand marriage for you, Bersaba. You always wanted the best.’

‘It will have to be as grand as yours.’

‘Oh, grander. You always had to score, didn’t you? You always thought you would marry first.’

‘You had the start while I was laid low.’ I lifted my fringe. ‘And look at me now.’

‘It doesn’t detract from your looks … really it doesn’t. It makes you more interesting, and when you think how you got them …’

‘I can’t live on that glory for ever,’ I said sharply. ‘It never matters how one acquires scars. All the world sees is that they are there.’

‘Richard said we must have a husband worthy of you.’

‘Did he? When?’

‘Some time ago. He has a great regard for you, Bersaba. He said you would be a help to a husband. You’re clever, he said. You should marry some official at Court. He said you would be a mistress of intrigue … yes, that’s what he said.’

‘Did he indeed!’

‘Oh, he said it most kindly. He really has great respect for you. I know he wants to get us to Whitehall so that he can find a good husband for you.’

‘It is kind of him to be so considerate,’ I said coldly.

And I was thinking: He didn’t know. He couldn’t. Yet how could he not?

He stayed in Whitehall for a week. Was it army affairs or was it because he knew and did not want to come back to this bizarre situation?

I should go away, of course. It was right that I should. But I longed to see him again. At one stage I almost felt that I would go to him and try to explain what I felt. I must somehow bring an end to this intolerable state of affairs. I was dreadfully uneasy about Angelet and could not bear to contemplate what her horror would be if she knew what had happened. She would never understand. I kept thinking of that smile of relief on her lips as she slept after she had taken her dose and escaped her obligations. Then I could find some consolation in the reminder that I had only taken what she did not want—and indeed had feared. But I could not be truly consoled.

I suggested that Angelet and I ride over to the Longridge Farm. We did and were made very welcome there. Luke took us into his study and read some of his pamphlets to us. I found them interesting because they gave me such an insight into the man’s character. He was such a fierce reformer; he was deeply religious and believed that the King, in setting himself up as the ruler by divine right, was comparing himself with God. He talked with vehemence about the extravagance of the Court and the wickedness of the Queen, whose aim was clearly to introduce Catholicism to the country.

‘It is something we shall never have,’ he cried, striking the table with his clenched fist, and I could imagine his preaching to a crowd.

I was fascinated by his doctrines to a certain extent, but more so by him. He was a Puritan who believed that life should be lived in the utmost simplicity; he scorned our gold and jewelled ornaments, our blue cloaks with their silken lining; yet at the same time I could see that he admired this finery in a way. I knew too that I interested him. When he talked his eyes never left my face, and although my thoughts were full of Richard and yearned for him, I could not help but be pleased by this man’s admiration, particularly because it was grudging and he could not help being aware of this innate sensuality of mine, even though he fought against recognizing it. It was the essence of femininity in me which appealed to the masculinity in him. It was something nature had given me and which nothing could destroy.

When we rode out from the farmhouse I felt elated.

Angelet said: ‘There is no doubt that Luke Longridge is taken with you.’

‘Oh, come,’ I said, ‘you are not still husband hunting.’

‘Indeed not there,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I cannot see you mistress of a farmhouse … and a Puritan one. You are far too vain and fond of finery. All the same, he found it hard to take his eyes from you.’

‘That is because you are a married woman and I am single.’

‘No, it was something else. I think Ella saw it. She was a little uneasy. She need not have worried, I am sure.’

‘I too am sure,’ I said, laughing.

And so we rode back to Far Flamstead, which was dreary and unwelcoming because Richard was not there.

Richard returned to the house, and I wondered how I could endure the days when I might come upon him at any moment and the long evenings when Angelet sat with her tapestry frame or her embroidery and he and I sat opposite each other with the small chess-table between us. Sometimes I would find his eyes upon me and I would look up quickly to catch him gazing at me, but I could not read his thoughts. He might have been assessing my possibilities in the marriage market.

Once I said to him: ‘Are you still contemplating marrying me off?’

‘Your marriage is a matter to which we must give some thought,’ he replied.

‘And we have, Bersaba,’ cried Angelet. ‘I assure you we have. Haven’t we, Richard?’

He bowed his head in assent.

‘It is good of you to give me so much of your attention. Angelet did not seek a husband. Fate brought him to her. I should like it to happen to me that way.’

‘That’s stupid,’ said Angelet. ‘If she stays here she will never meet anyone, will she, Richard?’

I wondered whether he liked the manner in which she referred everything to him. I supposed he did, since it showed she was the meek and docile wife.

‘I am content here,’ I said, looking at him.

I saw his lips lift slightly, which meant he was pleased.

‘Nevertheless, Bersaba, it would not be fair to you. I will arrange something.’

I gave my attention, to the chess, for I could not bear to hear him talk as though he would not be deeply affected if I went.

I went to my room. I knew I would be unable to sleep for thinking of what I had done. I wondered what my mother would say if she ever heard of it. She would make excuses for me, I did not doubt, but secretly she would be so shocked that she would never recover from it. She loved my father singlemindedly, I knew, but if he had married someone else she would have turned away from him and been prepared to live a life of regret—possibly unmarried, possibly with a second best.

People like my mother who were fundamentally good would never understand the overwhelming temptations which came to people like myself. I could be strong, but this need within me—which I had felt for Bastian—was something which, when it was at its full, obliterated everything.

Next day I rode over to the Longridge Farm where I was greeted by Ella. Her brother was out on farm business, she told me.

How neat and prim she looked in her plain grey gown and white apron. I wondered what she would say if she knew of my wickedness. She probably would not receive me here, for Puritans, living such pure lives themselves, were apt to be very harsh on the sins of others.

She talked for a while about the virtues of her brother and how she feared that he might be overbold. Terrible things could happen to those who wrote what was called sedition and was in fact truth.

‘I always remember hearing of Dr Leighton, a Scotsman who wrote An Appeal to the Parliament; or a Plea against Papacy. He was publicly whipped on two occasions and stood for two hours in the pillory. His ears were cut off, his nostrils slit and his cheek was branded with the letters S.S. which stood for Sower of Sedition.’

I shivered. ‘Your brother must not run those risks.’

‘Do you think he will listen to me?’

‘I doubt it. It is so with martyrs. They never listen to those who would preserve them.’

‘Dr Leighton is out of prison now.’

‘Perhaps then he can live in peace.’

She turned on me fiercely. ‘What do you think? Ten years the King’s prisoner! He has lost his sight, hearing and the use of his limbs. I suppose that could be called a sort of peace. And all for setting down his thoughts on paper that they might be shared with others!’

‘We live in cruel times, Ella.’

‘It is to change them that Luke and men like him risk their lives.’

We were silent for a while. How quiet and peaceful the farmhouse seemed. My mind went back to Far Flamstead and I wondered what Richard was thinking. What if he were to mention the night to Angelet? What would happen then?

Luke Longridge came in and I couldn’t help noticing how his eyes lit up at the sight of me. I exerted all my power to attract him because I needed some diversion. I must stop thinking about the half-farcical, half-tragic situation at Far Flamstead which I had created.

‘You look sombre, sister,’ he said, but his eyes were on me.

‘We were speaking of Dr Leighton.’

‘Oh yes. There was some agitation about him, but he is now a free man.’

‘After ten years!’ said Ella bitterly. ‘His life is finished. I doubt he has retained his reason.’

I looked straight at Luke and said: ‘It is a warning to people who would fly in the face of those who have power to harm them.’

He sat down at the table, his eyes burning with that fanatical pleasure which talking of these matters gave him.

‘Nay,’ he cried, ‘he is an example to us all.’

‘An example not to follow,’ I cried.

‘Mistress Landor …’

I interrupted him. ‘Pray call me Bersaba. We are good friends, are we not?’

‘It makes me happy to think so. Bersaba, there is work to be done, and if we are made of the stuff that falters when our leaders fall then we are not worthy of the fight.’

‘Perhaps you are worthy of a peaceful life with your family and children growing up in security.’

‘There is no security when tyranny prevails.’

‘Are you sure that when you overcome one tyranny you are not replacing it by another?’

‘We must make sure that is not so. There is no tyranny in the humble service of God.’

‘There is for those who do not wish to serve Him humbly.’

‘You are an advocate for your kind, Bersaba.’

‘What kind? I was unaware that I was of any sect. I think as I think. I will be free to form my own opinions and they will not be dictated to by this party or that.’

‘You would be considered as dangerous as I am.’

‘Nay, for I would not set out my thoughts on paper. I would keep them to myself and not try to force them on others.’

Ella brought us refreshments and we went on talking. She leaned her elbows on the table, saying little but watching us. Luke was animated, excited. I said: ‘Why, I do believe you’re thinking I am Archbishop Laud himself.’

‘I could never think you were anyone but who you are. You are too much of an individual to be confused with anyone.’ I felt the flush creep into my cheeks and memories—which I was trying so hard to eliminate—came rushing back to me. Then I had successfully—or did I succeed?—attempted to be confused for someone else. I wondered what Luke would say if he knew what I had done. I could imagine all his Puritan feelings rising in disgust.

But my blush did nothing more than to enhance his admiration for me.

I said quickly: ‘I hate to blush like this. You see, it makes my scar look worse.’

‘It is no blemish,’ he said. ‘Your sister told me how you acquired it.’

‘In the same way as others have,’ I answered. ‘I contracted smallpox.’

‘She told us how.’

‘You must not think me a heroine. I should not have gone there had I known.’

‘There would have been no purpose in going,’ Ella pointed out.

‘The fact that you did so out of anxiety for your maidservant shows that you are good … in spite of your efforts to deny it,’ added Luke, ‘which, may I tell you, I entirely reject.’

‘Well, what is going to happen?’ I asked.

‘This parliament will be dismissed, and there will be a new one before the year is out. Pym and Hampden will lead it, and then there will be conflict between the King and the Parliament. It will be a question of whether the country will be ruled by those it has elected to rule or by a stubborn man who believes he is on the throne by divine right.’

‘Be careful, Luke,’ warned his sister.

‘You are rash,’ I said, and I thought: We are both rash and it makes a bond between us.

I said I must go, and they asked why my sister had not come with me.

‘She suffers from a toothache.’

‘Did she not have it before?’

‘Yes, it occurs now and then. Mrs Cherry has a good cure which makes her sleep.’

‘I trust she will soon be well,’ said Ella.

‘A nagging tooth is often best removed,’ added Luke.

‘I must tell my sister,’ I said.

Luke took me back. He told me how much he enjoyed my visits, how interesting he found my views.

‘In spite of the fact that they do not accord with your own?’

‘Partly because of that, and because they are delivered with such lucidity, logic and reason.’

‘Perhaps I could bring you to my point of view.’

‘Nay,’ he said. ‘You are a Royalist by nature. I see that. I am a Puritan. I believe that the path to heaven is reached through sacrifice and renunciation of pleasure.’

‘I would never agree with that. Why should that which is enjoyable be sinful?’

‘Simplicity and religious living alone bring the true satisfaction of righteousness.’

I did not answer but I wanted to laugh. I had seen that in his eyes which showed me that he desired me. I did not find him by any means repulsive—even now when there was only one man who could completely satisfy me. There was so much I had to learn about myself. I thought how amusing it would be to prove him wrong.

We had reached Far Flamstead. I said: ‘You are right, Luke. You are too righteous for me. I’m afraid I am a sinner and always shall be. I find too much pleasure in the good things which the Lord has given us. I can’t think why He put them there if He expects us to turn our backs on them. That seems to me churlish. It is like being invited to a banquet and saying to one’s host I will not partake of these good things you offer me because they are too enjoyable and to take pleasure is a sin. Goodbye, Luke. I must return to my sinful life.’

‘Bersaba,’ he said as I turned away.

But I lifted my hand and waved farewell, keeping my back towards him.

I went into the house.

Richard was in the hall.

‘You have been riding … alone?’ he said reproachfully. He looked anxious, which pleased me, but it appeared to be merely a brotherly anxiety.

‘I only went to Longridge Farm and Luke Longridge rode back with me.’

‘You visit them frequently?’

‘I like their company.’

‘You should tell him to take care. There’ll be trouble for that man one day if he persists in writing those pamphlets of his.’

‘I do tell him. He will take no heed of me.’

I could not bear to remain there with him, for I was afraid that I would say something reckless. Was it just possible that he did not know?

That afternoon he left Far Flamstead. It was true that there was trouble in the north. One of the reasons there was so much disquiet in the country was due to the fact that the King was taxing the nobility and the gentry heavily, and the City of London had refused to give the money for which he was asking. Richard said it was desperately needed for the army and that the King was justified in his demands. Luke, on the other hand, believed that the King had no need of an army and that if he had not tried to interfere with Scotland’s religion there would be peace in the north.

I was aware of Angelet’s relief at his departure. Much as she admired him and, as she would say, loved him, she was happier when he was away and the burden of her duty could be cast aside.

She regretted the fact that she had lost her child which would, she once said, ‘have made up for everything’. I pinned her down then and boldly said: ‘Which means that you dread the nights in the big bed, is that it?’

‘How crudely you put it, Bersaba,’ she said, ‘and considering you are not married yourself and know nothing of these things, how can you talk about it?’

‘There are some things a spinster can understand,’ I retorted.

‘You won’t be a spinster long and then you will know for yourself.’

‘The point is,’ I replied, ‘you want the babies, you’ll endure the discomfort of pregnancy, but you dislike the initial necessity.’

She blushed and said: ‘Y … yes. I wish it didn’t have to happen like that.’

That was enough.

She spent her nights in the Blue Room. Her excuse was that she liked to be near me because it reminded her of old times.

‘Why, if we left our doors open we could talk to each other,’ she said wistfully.

It was an excuse to escape the big four-poster in the room they shared, and she wanted to forget its existence as she could in the peace of the Blue Room.

So we went on with the dull life which was so because Richard was not there, and we talked of him now and then and wondered how he was faring.

‘There is so much trouble nowadays,’ said Angelet, secretly hoping that while it did not become awkward it would keep Richard away from Flamstead for a while.

‘Let us hope that these matters are soon settled,’ I replied, fervently meaning it so that he would come back to us.

We went over to Longridge Farm once or twice and were made very welcome. When Luke was there he always singled me out and talked to me. He was always intrigued by my views on any subject and I had to admit that I enjoyed our talks; they were a substitute in a way for my aching desire for Richard. I was aware that he was falling in love with me and that he was a little disturbed by those longings which I knew so well how to arouse in him. I didn’t spare him either. I wanted to prove his theories wrong. I wanted to show him that he would be as eager to partake of the pleasures of life as I would.

There were days when the rain fell continuously and the house seemed gloomy. Hallowe’en came and we talked of Carlotta and wondered how she was faring now. I remembered how I had hated her and wanted to kill her—or someone else to kill her for me—and how at the last minute I had saved her. That showed me that I who thought I knew so much about other people did not even know myself.

I remember the last day in October very well. Perhaps I felt restless because there was so much mist in the air and it blotted out that landscape, so that even I accepted the fact that it would be unwise to go out riding.

In the afternoon I went to the bedchamber and looked at the bed and in a moment of folly I lay on it, after having pulled the bedcurtains. I thought then of the night I had spent there and tried to relive every minute of it again and to recall what he had said, and what I had replied. We had spoken little. There had been no need for words and I had to bear constantly in mind that I was supposed to be my sister.

And then suddenly I heard a movement outside the curtains. The slight click of the door, a soft footstep. Someone was in the room.

The first thought which flashed into my mind was: He has come back.

He would find me lying on this bed and he would know then what he had suspected … for suspect he must have.

But there was no escape. If someone was in this room, and that someone pulled aside the bedcurtains, I must be seen.

I could hear my heartbeats. I lay there waiting … and then the curtains were pulled back and Angelet was looking down on me.

‘Bersaba! What are you doing?’

I sat up on one elbow.

‘Oh, I was just wondering what it was like to … to sleep here.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Well, you sleep here … sometimes, don’t you?’

‘Well, naturally I do.’

‘I just wanted to see, that’s all.’

‘I knew someone was here,’ she said. ‘For a moment I thought …’

‘That Richard had come back?’ I asked.

‘Y … yes.’

‘You look relieved.’

‘Bersaba, what a thing to say!’

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’

I was laughing now—I felt like an observer outside the scene. This was typical of us. I was caught in an awkward situation and I turned the tables promptly and placed my sister in it.

‘You’ve guessed, I know, that I don’t like—’ she waved her hands—‘all that … I know it goes with marriage and has to be accepted.’

I jumped off the bed.

‘Well, now I know what it’s like to sleep there. Cheer up, Angelet. The Blue Room is very nice … and peaceful, and I am in the next room.’

She turned to me and hugged me.

‘I’m so glad you’re here, Bersaba.’

‘So am I,’ I answered.

And arm-in-arm we went out of the room.

This helped to placate my conscience a little. All I had done was save Angelet from what she disliked and in doing so I had pleased myself and Richard. I had flown in the face of convention; I had committed sins and forced Richard to do the same … very well, that was admitted; but it had not brought ill to everyone.

I wasn’t easy in my mind, of course. I knew what I had done and it was no use my advising others to face the truth if I didn’t face it myself.

That night when I had said goodnight to my sister and lay in my bed I could not sleep, because I kept going over that moment when Angelet had found me on the bed; and from there my thoughts went to Carlotta and how I had tried to stir up people against her. There was no doubt that I was a very sinful person. Then I wondered what Luke Longridge would say if I ever told him of all the sins I had committed. He would despise me of course and probably forbid me to enter his farmhouse where I might contaminate his sister. I think I should have enjoyed luring him on to some indiscretion to prove that none of us was as good as we thought ourselves to be and that those who wore the cloak of virtue so ostentatiously might well be the ones who had most to hide.

I don’t know why I thought about Luke Longridge. There was only one man who interested me. I wanted to be with him so much; I wanted to make him admit that he knew that I had come to him at night; I wanted him to scheme with me as I used to scheme with Bastian. I wanted to hear his voice saying impatiently ‘When, when, where?’ as Bastian used to.

And yet I could still think of Luke Longridge.

As I lay there sleepless I fancied I heard strange noises in the house.

Boards creak, I told myself. It is nothing.

Suddenly there was a violent noise as though a great cauldron had been thrown across the room. I fancied it was coming from the direction of the kitchen. I got out of bed and wrapped a robe around me.

I went to the stairs and listened. That was a sound of scuffling … Someone was in the kitchen. Undoubtedly something was going on down there.

Angelet had come out of her room. She gave a cry of relief when she saw me.

‘What is it, Bersaba? I heard … noises …’

‘Something is happening down there,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see.’

I called out: ‘Who’s there? What is it?’

Mrs Cherry appeared. She looked distraught. ‘Oh, it’s nothing at all, mistress. It’s just some of the pots as had not been put up right.’

I said: ‘It sounded like a cauldron being thrown across the floor.’

‘These things make a terrible noise.’

She stood facing us on the stairs, almost as though she were barring our way.

‘It’s all right now,’ she went on, looking at Angelet. ‘Cherry’s putting them up again. Secure this time. One of the men … you know … Put up anyhow … then we gets this scare in the night.’

Cherry appeared. His face was pale and his eyes looked shifty, I thought. ‘Begging your pardon, me ladies,’ he said, ‘I am that sorry. It was one of them … as didn’t put the things up right. Mr Jesson will have something to say about this in the morning.’

There was Mr Jesson and behind him Meg and Grace.

I had the odd impression that they were banding together to stop our advance. It was a stupid notion which had come to me because of all those mock battles. The military tradition was strong in this house.

‘I should go back to bed if I were you, my ladies,’ said Mrs Cherry. ‘I’m right down sorry you was disturbed.’

Angelet said, ‘It’s all right now then, is it, Mrs Cherry? They won’t fall again?’

‘As right as rain,’ said Mrs Cherry cheerfully.

‘I’ll have something to say to somebody in the morning, I promise you,’ said Jesson.

I turned to Angelet: ‘On that promise,’ I said lightly, ‘I think we should go back to our beds.’

‘Good night, me ladies.’ There was almost jubilation in the cry.

‘Good night,’ we said.

We went back to the Blue Room first.

‘Oh dear,’ said Angelet, ‘I was just getting off.’

‘Only just? My dear sister, don’t you sleep well?’

‘I haven’t lately. I wish I could. I hate lying awake at night.’

‘You slept very well on Mrs Cherry’s special cure for toothache,’ I said.

‘Oh that … yes, for hours and hours.’

‘You had such good sleeps then that must have been very refreshing. You know what it was, don’t you? The juice of the poppy.’

‘I wish I could sleep like that every night.’

‘You would if you took the cure.’

‘One shouldn’t though, should one? It’s all right when you have a raging toothache, but you shouldn’t take it just because you can’t sleep.’

‘I’m not troubled with sleeplessness. I might if I were, perhaps, just now and then when I wanted to be certain of a good night’s sleep.’

‘If it were here now I’d have a dose.’

‘Shall I ask Mrs Cherry for it?’

‘She’s gone to bed now.’

‘She won’t be asleep. I’m sure she would be delighted. She has a bit of conscience about the noise. They all have. Did you notice how uneasy they were?’

‘They were worried about waking us.’

‘I’ll ask Mrs Cherry in the morning … if you can get through the night.’

‘Of course. I’ll sleep in time.’

‘Mind you,’ I said, ‘you will have to be cautious with this stuff. It won’t do to take it often. Only at certain times. I’ll be your doctor and prescribe when you need it.’

‘Oh Bersaba, it is good to have you here.’

‘I hope you won’t change your mind.’

‘Change my mind. What do you mean?’

‘About having me here. I’m really the bad girl of the family. I’m not like you, Angelet.’

I interrupted her as she started on the old story of how I had saved Phoebe’s life and Carlotta from the witch hunters. I said: ‘It’s time we were in bed. Try to forget all this excitement and sleep. I’ll do the same.’

I kissed her lightly and she clung to me for a moment. Then firmly I released myself and went into my Lavender Room.

I lay awake for a long time thinking how easy it would be to send Angelet to sleep while I took her place in the marriage bed.

Then I dreamed that Richard came home and that I gave Angelet the dose, and when I was on my way to Richard, Mrs Cherry and Cherry, with Jesson and Meg and Grace, stood on the stairs barring my way.

It was a dream at which I could laugh when I awoke from it because I saw exactly how it had been evolved.

The next afternoon I went down to the kitchen to speak to Mrs Cherry about her cure. I wanted to make sure that it was safe in small doses.

When I arrived in the kitchen there was no one there. The great fire was burning and there was a smell of baking coming from the oven. A piece of meat was turning on the spit in its early stages of cooking so that it did not yet need attention.

I looked around and my eyes fell on the cauldron whose fall to the ground had awakened us all in the night. And as I looked, I noticed what I had never noticed before, and that was a door which was not shut. Above this door hung aprons and cloths used for cooking, and the reason why I had never noticed it before was because it was always hidden. There were things still hung there to hide it, but because the door itself was slightly open the fact of its existence was betrayed. I went to it. There was a lock on it but that lock had been broken. Quickly I opened the door. Inside was a cupboard in which heavy garments were hanging. Some instinct told me that this was no ordinary cupboard and I drew the coats aside. I was right! A door faced me. The lock on this had been broken but there was a bolt which had been drawn across.

I thought I heard footsteps so I hastily stepped back into the kitchen and shut the cupboard door.

Mrs Cherry came in.

‘I thought I heard someone here,’ she said.

‘I came to have a word with you, Mrs Cherry.’

She was fearful, I could see, and I noticed how her eyes went to the door I had discovered. She would notice that it was not properly shut and that close scrutiny would betray this fact. I wondered why it was important.

She brought up a chair for me and I sat down.

‘Your mistress is not sleeping very well.’ I said, ‘and I am becoming worried about her.’

Apprehension disappeared from Mrs Cherry’s face, which fell into an expression of concern.

‘Do you remember when she had a toothache she took some of your special cure?’

‘I do indeed, mistress, and she remarked to me that it had stopped the pain.’

‘It did. You are very clever with your herbs, Mrs Cherry.’

She dimpled. ‘Oh it’s what you might call a lifelong practice, Mistress Bersaba.’

‘That’s why I’ve come to you for your help.’

‘If there’s anything I can do …’

‘There is. I want to ask you if she might have some of the cure to keep in her room so that when she finds it difficult to sleep she might take a dose. Would that be harmful?’

‘Well, Mistress Bersaba, as long as she didn’t take too much. These things shouldn’t be took regular. A little now and then can’t do no one no harm. I always say God put them there for our use and it’s up to us to make the best of them.’

‘And people like you who make a study of these things are doing a very useful job for us all.’

‘Well, mistress, it’s my pleasure. I love my little herb garden, and if I can find anything new or learn any new recipe … well, there’s no one happier than Emmy Cherry.’

Emmy Cherry! I thought. It suited her—so rotund, so eager to serve, and yet with a glint of something in her eyes which made her of interest to me.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you will let me have the cure?’

‘I’ve been thinking, Mistress Bersaba. The cure is for toothache. You don’t need a cure for toothache when you ain’t got it, now do you? I’ve got a little something here which is made mostly of poppy juice and fresh green leaves to give it taste and a spot of juniper to give it a tang … That’s not all. But a little nip of this would ensure a good night’s rest, I reckon, and do no harm. I’ll give it to you.’

She went to a cupboard and I followed her. It was like a small room, that cupboard, and I imagined it was an almost exact replica of the one which contained the coats.

This cupboard was lined with shelves and in it was an array of bottles neatly labelled. There was no extra door.

She took one of the bottles and gave it to me.

‘Here you are, Mistress Bersaba. She’ll sleep well on this. Just the one dose will do it. But don’t let her take too much. There’s always a fear that you’ll take a dose, get sleepy and take another without knowing it. It’s been done more than once. Now that’s something I wouldn’t like to speak for.’

‘You can trust me, Mrs Cherry,’ I said. ‘I shall see that she only takes it when it is absolutely necessary and I’ll keep it in my room.’

I took the bottle into my room and put it into a cupboard. When I saw Angelet I told her what I had done.

‘Where is it?’ she asked.

‘I’m keeping it,’ I told her. ‘When I think you really need to be put off to sleep, I shall use Mrs Cherry’s Soother …’

‘Let me have it, Bersaba.’

‘No,’ I said firmly; and she laughed and was happy in my care for her.

I couldn’t wait to explore that part of the grounds around the kitchens, for I wanted to discover if there was a door there which could be the one in the cupboard.

It was dusk and there was no one about when I strolled out in my cloak, for it was chilly, and made my way round the house.

This was where the kitchens would be. There was the window which I knew was there, but I could not find a door. I wondered whether there had been one once and it had been blocked up. If so, there should be some sign of it, but there was nothing.

I looked behind me. The wall of the mock castle was very close and the discovery I did make was that this was its nearest distance from the house. If it is a ruin which might crumble at any moment, is it safe to allow it to remain so near the house? I wondered.

Clearly I could discover nothing there, so I went back to my room, but I kept thinking about it.

How long the evening seemed. Angelet sat idly, for she could not see to embroider by the candlelight, and I fancied that when Richard was not there she did not feel the need to be busy.

We talked of old times and Trystan Priory and wondered what our mother was doing at that moment. Then when we mentioned Castle Paling I was reminded of my exploration that afternoon, and said: ‘When I went down to the kitchen to speak to Mrs Cherry I noticed a cupboard I had not seen before. I looked inside and there was a door which was bolted. Where does it lead?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Angelet.

‘You’re the mistress of the house. It shouldn’t hold any secrets from you.’

‘I never interfere in the kitchen.’

‘It’s not interfering … just to find out why there should be a door in a cupboard.’

‘Did you ask Mrs Cherry?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well, if you’re curious you could ask her.’

‘Why don’t we go down and see?’

‘To ask them, you mean.’

‘I don’t want to ask them. I want to find out for ourselves. It’s rather mysterious, I fancy.’

‘Mysterious? How? Why?’

‘How? That’s what we have to find out. And why?—well, something tells me it is.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Explore.’

Her eyes shone. It was almost as though we were children again and I knew that that was what she was thinking. Hadn’t I always been the one to lead the way when we did something wild and extraordinary?

‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you suggest?’

‘We’ll wait until they’re in bed and then we’ll go down to the kitchens and see what’s behind that door … If there is anything.’

‘What if we’re discovered?’

‘My dear Angelet, what if we are? Are you or are you not the mistress of this house? If you wish to explore your kitchen in the dead of night, what right has anyone to stop you?’

She began to laugh.

‘You haven’t grown up at all,’ she accused.

‘In some ways I may have retained my childishness,’ I admitted.

The evening passed slowly; we went to our rooms and to our beds because I had said that neither Meg nor Phoebe should suspect anything. This was our adventure.

It was just past midnight when we wrapped our robes about us and took a candle and made our way to the kitchens.

Angelet kept close to me. I sensed that she was a little nervous, and I wondered whether I should have suggested she share the adventure. Cautiously I opened the kitchen door and, lifting the candlestick, shone the light over the wall, past the great fireplace to the shelf on which stood the pewter goblets.

‘There’s the cauldron which fell the other night,’ I said. I lowered the candle. ‘And there’s the door. Come on.’

I went to it. It was shut and there was a key in the lock. I turned it and the door opened. I was in the cupboard.

‘Hold the candle,’ I commanded Angelet, and when she took it I pushed aside the coats and revealed that other door. The lock had not been mended, but the heavy bolt was drawn across it.

‘What are you doing?’ whispered Angelet.

‘I’m going to draw the bolt,’ I said.

It moved easily which surprised me, for I had imagined it might be impossible to move if it had not been drawn for a number of years.

I opened the door and as I did so there was a rush of cold air. I looked into darkness.

‘Be careful,’ cried Angelet.

‘Give me the candle.’

It was a sort of corridor. On the ground were stones and the walls were of stone too.

I stepped forward.

‘Come back!’ screamed Angelet. ‘I can hear someone coming.’

That brought me out into the cupboard. I too could hear footsteps. I shut the door behind me. As I did so Mrs Cherry came into the kitchen.

She gave a little scream and Angelet said, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Cherry.’

‘God have mercy,’ she whispered.

I said quickly: ‘We thought we heard someone down here—and we came to investigate.’

Mrs Cherry’s eyes had lost their bland benignity. She could have been very frightened.

‘It’s all right, though,’ I went on. ‘It must have been mice in the wainscot or some bird outside …’

She looked round the room and I noticed that her eyes went to the cupboard.

‘I reckon this comes of people not putting up cauldrons in their right places, that’s what I reckon. People get nervous … that’s what, and then they mistake noises in the night.’

‘I suppose that’s what it was. But we have satisfied ourselves, Mrs Cherry. So there’s no need to worry.’

‘I wouldn’t like to think of anything wrong in my kitchen,’ said Mrs Cherry.

‘There is nothing wrong. We’ve satisfied ourselves. We’ll say goodnight now, and I’m sorry you’ve been disturbed.’

I slipped my left arm through Angelet’s right and, holding the candle high in my right hand, I led my sister out of the kitchen.

When we were in the Blue Room I set down the candle, sat on her bed and laughed.

‘Well, that was fun,’ I said.

‘Why did you make up that story about hearing noises? Why didn’t you tell her what we were looking for?’

‘I felt it would be more fun not to.’

‘What was it you found, anyway?’

‘The door opens on to a sort of alcove with a stone floor.’

‘Well, what’s so interesting about that?’

‘My explorations did not go far enough for me to answer.’

‘Oh Bersaba, you are mad. You always were. What Mrs Cherry thought of us, I can’t imagine.’

‘She was a little upset. I wonder why?’

‘Most people would be after they’d had a fright like that.’

‘What would you say if I told you I thought that might be a way into the castle?’

‘I’d say that you were making it up.’

‘Well, of course, there is a way to prove it, though. And there isn’t another way in, is there? I mean, that high wall with the glass on top goes all the way round.’

‘Richard had the wall put round because it wasn’t safe. And there is another door. I found it one day when I was in the copse. Why should there be a way into the castle from the house?’

‘I don’t know. I just wondered.’

‘Oh dear, I shall never sleep tonight. Shall I have a little of the sleeping draught?’

‘Well, perhaps you are over excited. It might be a good time to try it.’

I went to my room and brought out the bottle.

I gave her the appointed dose and said I would sit with her until she slept.

Within fifteen minutes of taking it she fell into a deep sleep. I sat there for some time, thinking about the cupboard and the bolted door. I believed that there was a corridor into the castle and I had discovered it.

I awoke in the night and went into Angelet’s room; she was still sleeping, and in the morning I asked if she had slept through the night and she assured me that she had.

Civil War

THE NEXT DAY I made an excuse to go to the kitchen, and then I noticed that the key to the cupboard had been removed and guessed that Mrs Cherry or someone had suspected my interest and was determined that my explorations should cease.

I was almost certain that there was a corridor leading from the kitchen into the castle, and since the castle was forbidden as unsafe, naturally the existence of the corridor would be kept a secret.

Then I ceased to think about the matter, for that afternoon Luke Longridge rode over. It was the first time he had called at Far Flamstead because Richard had never asked him, and in view of the fact that relations must be rather strained between them after that proposed duel about which Angelet had told me, this was not surprising. Richard had, however, raised no objection to our visiting them. True, there had been nothing formal about our visits and we met them more by chance than anything else.

It was Phoebe who came to tell me that Mr Longridge had called and was asking for me, so I went down to the hall where he waited uneasily. I thought something must be wrong and asked him what.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to talk to you. Could you get a wrap and come out into the gardens?’

‘Can’t you talk here?’ I asked.

‘As I am not sure whether General Tolworthy would welcome me in his house, I would prefer it if you would come outside.’

I said I would get a wrap and I sent Phoebe for it.

When we were outside, I led him to the enclosed garden. It was too chilly to sit, so we walked round as we talked.

‘You will wonder at the urgency,’ he said, ‘but it is not a hasty matter on my part, for I have thought about it continuously for some time. You have been in my thoughts since our first meeting and each day I have hoped that you would ride by.’

‘You and your sister have always given us a good welcome and both my sister and I have enjoyed our visits.’

‘No doubt you are aware of my regard for you. I had not thought to marry. There is so much I want to do, but it is natural for a man to take a wife. I hope this does not seem incongruous to you, but I have come to ask you to marry me.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I am deeply in earnest. I am not a rich man, but I have the farm and some assets. We are not exactly poor.’

‘I do not assess people by their worldly goods.’

‘Indeed you do not. You are too wise for that. The rich man of today can be the poor man of tomorrow. The treasures of the heart and mind are those of value.’

‘Why do you wish to marry me?’ I asked.

‘Because I love you. I could be happy with you. I could make you happy, and the simple fact is that I shall never know happiness without you.’

‘I thought you did not believe in happiness.’

‘You mock me.’

‘No, I seek to know you.’

‘There is nothing in the Bible against a man’s marrying. It is a worthy action to take.’

‘But what if you should find pleasure in your marriage?’

‘That would find favour in the eyes of God.’

‘Carnal pleasure?’ I said. He was startled. He looked at me in amazement. I said: ‘We are not children. We must know the reason for our actions. I want to ask you if the thought of carnal pleasure makes you feel you would be happy to live with me.’

‘How strangely you talk, Bersaba. Hardly like a …’

‘Like a Puritan? But I am not a Puritan. I believe you want me as men will want women and offer marriage for that reason. I merely wish to know.’

He stepped nearer to me. ‘You enchant me,’ he said. ‘I will admit I want you in this way. I can only be happy with you. Bersaba, you don’t answer. Will you marry me?’

‘No,’ I said, almost triumphantly, for I had made him admit to carnal desires; and then that perverse side of my nature was there and I was sorry for him. ‘I could only marry if I loved … as one loves a lover. I make no secret of my needs. I do not love you in that way, though I respect you and like you as my friend. That is the answer, Luke, and I have nothing more to say.’

‘Bersaba, you will think of this?’

‘It would do no good.’

‘I suppose they will take you to London and there will be balls and banquets …’

‘And extravagances,’ I said.

‘And there you will find a man who will make you rich.’

‘I do not look for riches. I told you that, Luke.’

He turned away and I laid my hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But if you really knew me you would not admire me. You want me, yes, I know that, but you would not be happy with me. Your conscience would worry you. You would find too much pleasure in me. You are a Puritan … I don’t know what I am, but it is not that. You will find a wife more suitable, Luke, and you will then thank me and God for this day.’

‘You are so different from everyone else,’ he said.

‘That is why you should avoid me. You don’t know me. I’m not of your kind. Try not to feel too badly. I shall call on your sister as I did before and we’ll be friends. We’ll talk. We’ll fight our verbal battles and enjoy each other’s company. Go now, Luke. Don’t be downhearted. This is for the best. I know it.’

Then I left him and ran into the house.

The next day Richard returned. I heard arrivals and went out into the courtyard to see who had come, and there he was dismounting while the groom took charge of his horse.

Forgetting decorum in my pleasure at seeing him, I had run forward holding out my hands. He seized them and held them for a moment, looking into my face searchingly, I thought, and I felt my spirits soaring, for I believed in that moment that he knew.

‘Bersaba,’ he said, and there was something about the way in which he said my name which sounded like a lover speaking to his mistress, but almost immediately he was cool and looking as I had so often seen him look. ‘I’m back for a brief stay,’ he said. ‘Where is Angelet?’

She too had heard and came out into the courtyard.

He took her hands as he had taken mine and kissed her cheek.

‘You are well?’ he asked solicitously.

‘Oh yes, Richard. And you? How long will you be with us? Are the troubles over?’

‘As usual I can’t say how long and the troubles are by no means over. They increase with every day.’

He slipped his arm through hers and then looked round for me. I went to him and he took my arm, and thus linked we went into the hall.

I warned myself that I must not betray this wild excitement which took possession of me. I must overcome it. I must remember that this was my sister’s husband.

We supped as usual in the intimate parlour. He seemed almost tender to Angelet.

‘Are you sure you are feeling well?’ he asked her. ‘You look a little tired.’

‘She has not been sleeping very well,’ I told him.

He was concerned and Angelet murmured that it was nothing.

As the meal progressed he talked a great deal about what was going on. A new Parliament had met, and although many of its members had sat with that which had assembled in the previous April and was now known as the Short Parliament, there were some new members. ‘They are determined,’ said Richard, ‘to end all grievances and pull them up by the roots. This bodes ill for men like Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford, and Archbishop Laud.’

As usual he talked to me of these matters, and afterwards he said he had work to do and retired to the library.

I went to my room. Angelet was already in the Blue Room. I was excited and she was in fear. I believe that she nourished this aversion to an abnormal proportion. She admired her husband beyond all men; she was proud to be his wife; she would have been completely happy in her marriage if these nightly duties were not part of the contract.

Of course it would seem unnatural if she did not spend the night with him, for he had been away so long and would expect it.

‘What’s the matter, Angelet?’ I asked, knowing full well, and she answered: ‘I don’t know. I feel the toothache coming on.’ She looked at me appealingly, reminding me of the days of her childhood when she had been afraid of going to some part of the Priory in the dark and would make up all sorts of excuses not to go.

She does not want him, I thought. She is afraid of him. That which I long for, she fears. I had been the resourceful one in our childhood, and I felt that she was asking me now—as she often had in the past—to find a way out for her.

My heart started to beat fast as I said: ‘You must have some of the Cherry cure.’

‘It makes me so sleepy.’

‘That is what you need.’

‘Richard has only just come home.’

‘He will understand.’

Her expression lightened and she looked at me adoringly. I was once more the sister on whom she could rely.

‘I’ll give you a dose,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll tuck you in and then I’ll go down to the library to tell him. You’ll be all right tomorrow. He realizes that.’

‘Oh, Bersaba, do you think …’

My hands trembled a little as I poured out the dose.

I helped her to bed and sat with her until she slept, which was soon. She looked so happy and relaxed in sleep that my conscience was eased.

I will go to tell him, I promised myself, I will confess what I have done and tomorrow I will make plans to go home. I will explain to him that she is afraid and that she needs time to grow accustomed to what is now distasteful to her. I knew that he would understand if I could tell him.

I went to the library. He was not there.

I would find him in the bedchamber. Perhaps he had already gone to Angelet’s room to look for her, perhaps he would try to rouse her from her drugged sleep. I had promised her I would explain. So must I, but more than she realized; and then tomorrow I would make plans to leave for Cornwall, and hope that in time they would find happiness together.

I went to the bedchamber and knocked on the door. It was swiftly opened. He took my hand and drew me in.

‘Angelet,’ he said, and there was a note in his voice which I had never heard before when he said her name.

The temptation swept over me. I could impersonate her perfectly. Perhaps once more … and then I would explain. My resolutions had crumbled, but I did protest as he embraced me, realizing even as I did so that that would make me even more like Angelet.’

I cried: ‘I have to speak to you, Richard.’

‘Later,’ he murmured. ‘There will be plenty of time to talk. I have been thinking of you, longing for you …’

There was that in his voice, in the touch of his hands, which moved me deeply. More than anything I wanted to please him, to comfort him, to make him happy. If Angelet had suffered from her frigidity, so must he. My love for him overwhelmed me. Why not … just for tonight. Then I would go away. And so it was.

He gave no sign that he knew I was not my sister.

I was awakened by strange noises. I started up, horror dawning on me. I was in the four-poster bed and Richard was beside me.

I could not describe the noise, but I knew that someone was in the room. I heard a crash as though a stool were being thrown, and there was wild demonical laughter, followed by snarling noises such as a wild animal might make.

Richard had thrown back the curtains and was out of bed.

I followed.

He had lighted a candle and I cried out in fear, for something horrible was in the room. In those first seconds I had not thought it human; it was like something conjured up in a nightmare. But it was human. It was a child, with wild tousled hair and arms so long that they almost reached the ground. The body was bent forward and the creature shuffled. Its lips were loose, its eyes wild—mad, murderous eyes.

‘Cherry!’ called Richard, but Cherry was already at the door. Behind him was Mrs Cherry.

Richard had caught the creature and was holding it while its long arms lashed out in protest and it started to wail like an animal.

Mrs Cherry murmured: ‘Mercy on us. I’ll get John.’

The creature had broken free and had run to a stool. He picked it up but Richard was there before it could crash through the mirror.

The struggle went on, but it was all that both Richard and Cherry could do to hold those thrashing arms.

A man came in. I knew he was Strawberry John because Angelet had mentioned him once and he was immediately recognizable by the scar on his face.

‘Now come, my boy,’ said John. ‘Now come, my friend. John’s here.’

The arms stopped thrashing and John seized them suddenly from behind, pinioning the writhing body.

‘Now it doesn’t hurt if you’re still. You know that. Only if you struggle. Now you come with John. Now … now easy does it. That’s better.’

The writhing had ceased and the man with the scar gently but firmly led the creature away.

Mrs Cherry stood trembling in the doorway. ‘I can’t think how, sir. The bolt had been drawn. Cherry always draws it …’

‘Never mind now, Mrs Cherry,’ said Richard.

I had remained hidden in the shadows, but now the violence was over I was aware of the predicament in which I found myself. I was discovered, exposed. I kept telling myself that this was a nightmare from which I would awaken at any moment, but I knew very well it was real.

As the sounds of scuffling died away Richard shut the door and leaned against it.

I shook out my hair to hide the scars on my brow and involuntarily I covered the one on my cheek with my hand.

‘That … creature is my son,’ he said. ‘You will have to know now.’

I did not answer. I was afraid to speak because even now I was not sure whether he thought I was Angelet.

I felt there was no need for him to explain. I understood so much. This son was an idiot, a monster; he was shut in the castle with strong man Strawberry John to look after him. The Cherrys knew the secret. He was kept in the castle and the door in the kitchen was the way into that sinister place. I had unbolted the door and it had remained so, which gave this boy-monster, whatever he was, the opportunity to come into the house.

I had set the stage for my own betrayal—which I suppose is what happens to wrong-doers.

I had to think quickly. Could I really deceive him? Could I go on pretending to be Angelet? There were only the scars to betray me.

I said: ‘I understand, Richard. I understand it all.’

He came to me, then gently he lifted the hair from my forehead and kissed my scars. A great joy swept over me. There was no longer need for deception. He knew.

‘Did you think I didn’t know?’ he said. ‘Oh Bersaba, why did you do it?’

‘Because I am wicked, I suppose.’

‘Never that,’ he said. ‘Afterwards I went away. I said it must not happen again and then I came back longing for you to come to me.’

‘I thought you would hate me if you knew.’

‘I could never do anything but love you, and I shall always remember that you did this for me. Don’t you see, I shall love you for ever.’

I put my head against him and I felt suddenly weak, wanting to be taken care of.

He kissed my hair. Why had I thought he was a cold and passionless man? I knew that his love for me was as deep and overwhelming as mine for him.

‘As soon as you came into this house,’ he said stroking my hair, ‘it was clear to me that I needed you. Every minute with you is an excitement, an adventure. Why did you not come to London in place of …’

He was a man of strict conventions, a man with a sense of righteousness, and he could not bring himself to say Angelet’s name,

‘You married my sister,’ I said. ‘You must have loved her.’

‘I saw something in her. I thought she was young, fresh, healthy. I thought we might have healthy children. I know it was the shadow of you. You are so alike. Often I have watched you riding out in the gardens and I have not known which was which. It is when you talk, when we are together in love, that there is no similarity whatsoever. There is so much to say to you, I don’t know where to begin.’

He led me to the bed and we sat down on it with his arm about me while the candle flickering on the dressing-table threw an eerie light about the room.

‘First my tragedy. Let me tell you about the boy. He is eleven years old … my son … my only son. His birth killed his mother.’

‘I think I understand it all. I’ve pieced it together. You keep him in the castle and that is why you want no one to go near it.’

He nodded. ‘It became obvious that there was something very wrong with him in the first year of his life. Mrs Cherry nursed him. She insisted and she was good. I owe a great deal to the Cherrys, Jesson and his daughters. They were all here then. They know the secret and they have helped me to keep it. The other servants are old soldiers, and old soldiers don’t talk if they think it would be unwise to do so. There is a strong man—Strawberry John, he is called, because of a birthmark. He is a man who is thought to be a little strange. He is unusual, extraordinary and of great strength, as you have seen tonight. He looks after the boy and has kept him in the castle since he was three years old and began to get violent. No one can control him like Strawberry John. But Mrs Cherry and Cherry are good with him. The boy’s strength is growing. He has the arms of a gorilla and could kill with them.’

‘Can you keep him there for ever?’

‘Such people do not live very long, I have heard. I have investigated and learned something of such cases. They usually die in their mid-twenties or thirties. They have the strength of two men, I have been told, and only half their life span.’

‘It is a long way to go.’

‘We have managed so far. It was thought that he died. Oh, Bersaba, there has been such subterfuge.’

‘And you are a man who hates subterfuge,’ I said with meaning.

‘I opened the castle, built the wall round it, and he has been there since. A child was buried bearing his name. There have been occasions when he has broken out but they are rare.’

‘And this must remain a secret.’

‘This is my son, Bersaba. I am responsible for him. I want to give him the best life I can and I want children … normal children … who will grow up in this house and live here through the generations. I fear what effect it would have on … Angelet … or anyone if they knew. She would be afraid that the children we might have could be similarly tainted. Clearly he has inherited madness from someone.’

‘His mother …’

‘She was a gentle girl of good family. There was no madness in her family. I know you will understand. Don’t you always understand me? I did not want Angelet to know. If she were to have a child her fears could harm it and herself. You understand that, Bersaba.’

He held me against him. ‘What must we do, Bersaba?’ he asked.

‘What can we do?’

‘We can only part and that means that I shall live sadly all the days that are left to me.’

‘You have your profession,’ I said, ‘and it seems that in the next years you will be occupied with that. And I must go away.’

He turned to me and held me close to him. ‘The moment I was beside you I knew, Bersaba.’

‘And gave no sign.’

‘I dared not.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘because you are a righteous man. You were like Adam. The woman tempted me. Oh, don’t protest. She did. You see, I am not good, Richard. You must realize that. Angelet is like my mother—gentle, kindly, eager to do right. I am not gentle, I’m kind only when I love, and I am anxious to do the right only if it gives me pleasure and you see I will willingly do the wrong for that same reason.’

‘I never met anyone like you.’

‘You should pray that you never do again.’

‘It would be an impossibility, and having known you, I have learned this. If you could have been my wife I would have asked nothing more of life.’

I touched his hair with my fingers. ‘What now, Richard?’ I did not wait for him to answer. ‘I must go away. It is what I came to tell you tonight … and then I gave way to the temptation to be with you once more …’

‘Oh God, Bersaba, what are we going to do?’

‘There is only one thing to be done. I must go away.’

‘No.’ He spoke quietly. ‘I can’t let you go.’

‘We have to think of Angelet,’ I went on.

He nodded.

‘You must try to understand her. Be patient with her. In time perhaps …’

‘She will never be you.’

‘But you married her, Richard.’

‘Why did you not come in the first place?’

‘It’s no use railing against fate, is it? This has happened to us. We must accept it. She admires you. She loves you. She can’t be blamed for her nature any more than we can for ours.’

‘Having known you, I could not live without you.’

‘You can and you will. For that is how it must be.’

He looked at me desperately. ‘We might … think of some way.’

I shook my head. ‘I am not a good woman, Richard, as you have discovered, but this is my sister … my twin sister. This must be the end. I must make some excuse to go.’

‘You will break her heart and mine.’

‘Hearts mend quickly when there is someone to apply the healing. You will heal each other.’

He held me close to him and I cried out: ‘No. I must go away. I should not be here … like this. You see how dangerous it can be.’

‘I cannot let you go,’ he said simply.

‘And I cannot stay,’ I answered.

‘Please, Bersaba, promise me this. Do not go yet … Wait a while. Let us think how best to handle this.’

‘If I stay … this can happen again.’

There was silence and I knew that he was trying to control his rising emotions, as I was. I had to be calm. I had to think of Angelet.

‘I don’t think I could bear to lose you now. You know what my marriage has been like. When you came life changed … it became exciting … I was lifted out of my despondency … ’

‘I understand that,’ I answered. ‘But now we are overwrought. I must go now.’

I saw his face in the candlelight, desperate, yearning, so that he seemed younger and so vulnerable. I longed to comfort him, to make promises which I knew would be a betrayal of Angelet. God knows I had done her enough injury already. I must stop thinking of myself and Richard.

‘Promise you will not go yet,’ he insisted.

And I gave him my promise. Then I pulled myself away. I almost ran from the room and hastened to my own bedchamber. I looked in at Angelet. She was sleeping peacefully with a look of satisfaction and relief on her innocent face.

It was not easy to face Angelet but I managed better than he did; and when a messenger came that very afternoon with despatches from the camp he seemed relieved to go.

I saw him alone before he went. He said: ‘We will work out a solution.’ But I knew there was no solution.

Angelet waved farewell and, turning to me, said in a voice glowing with pride, ‘He is in such an important position. He is in constant consultation with the King.’

As for myself, I wanted to be alone to think, and I walked in the grounds and sat in the pond garden, from which I could get a glimpse of the castle walls, and I thought of his anguish and that monster child who was incarcerated there, and I wondered what would become of us.

We were in December and Angelet talked a great deal about the coming Christmas and Christmases at home. Our father was still there. Our mother wrote that the setting up of the company offices in Plymouth demanded a great deal of their time and she would be happy to have them with her for Christmas. All that she regretted was the absence of her daughters. I thought of them bringing in the Yule log, and the carollers and mummers coming and performing. The family were going to Castle Paling for a week or two. Grandfather Casvellyn was ailing. He was always excited at the end of October because Hallowe’en brought back memories, and he used to get so excited about witches and wanted to go out himself to find them and hang them, that he was always weak for some time afterwards.

‘You see, my darlings,’ wrote our mother, ‘nothing is changed. I am so glad that you are together. Angelet must persuade Richard to bring you all here. Of course, I know the times are bad and that a soldier has to hold himself in readiness. I do hope all these troubles will dissolve and life be peaceful. We shall be thinking of you on Christmas Day.’

We should certainly be thinking of them.

It was mid-December when a suspicion which had come to me some time before was confirmed. I should perhaps not be surprised that I was going to have a child.

I came to the conclusion calmly enough and with a sort of exultation. That was before I would allow myself to contemplate all the difficulties involved. What was I thinking of? I was happy because I was to have Richard’s child. But in what position was I to bear it?

Phoebe was watching me closely. I believe she knew more than I realized. She had always watched over me and I had suspected that she was aware that I had not returned to my bed in the early hours of morning on more than one night.

As I lay in my bed I faced the truth. I asked myself what I was going to do. I would tell him and what would his reaction be? In a way he would be delighted, but then the enormity of the difficulties which were before us would rise up and he would, as I was now, search wildly for some way of dealing with the matter.

I could go to my sister and say: ‘I am to bear your husband’s child. You did not want him so I took him and this is the result.’

Even for myself, who knew her so well, it was difficult to imagine what Angelet would do.

I knew the solution Richard would offer. He would want to take me away. We would have to think up some reason for my going. He would want me to bear my child in secret and he would come and visit us sometimes.

But how? That would have to be decided.

Why had I not thought of this before? Why had not he? Our passion seemed to have blinded us to everything but the need to satisfy it.

It was characteristic of me that when a possible solution suggested itself I did not hesitate. I had always acted too quickly and my mother had often chided me for it. I was impatient, impulsive by nature. Perhaps it was due to this that my conduct so often brought me into situations from which I found it difficult to extricate myself.

Indeed I should have considered this possibility. Why should not I, a passionate woman, also be a fruitful one? I had not thought beyond the intrigue and immense delight of those occasions, or perhaps I had subconsciously refused to look at a likely result.

The fact remained that I was pregnant and in due course my condition would be known, so I had to do something.

I rode over to Longridge Farm. I sat with Ella talking in the farmhouse until Luke came in. His pleasure in seeing me was apparent and I made up my mind that I would speak to him and when he came to take me back to Far Flamstead I did.

I came straight to the point. ‘You asked me to marry you. Is that offer still open?’

He drew up his horse and looked at me. I returned his gaze unflinchingly. ‘Because if it is,’ I went on, ‘I accept. I will marry you.’

‘Bersaba!’ There was no mistaking the joy in his voice.

I held up my hand to ward him off. ‘You must know the reason,’ I said. ‘I am with child and in the circumstances a husband is rather necessary to me.’

I could see that he was finding it difficult to follow my meaning. He clearly did not believe what I was saying could be true.

‘It is true,’ I said. ‘When you asked me I refused you because I did not know then. I like you. You interest me. I enjoy our discussions, but I want you to know the reason why I will accept your offer. Of course you may change your mind now. You, a gentleman of the Puritan persuasion, would not want a woman such as I am for a wife. I am really most unsuitable and we both know it, but you told me that you loved me and I am now in this somewhat embarrassing position. I have to consider how I can act in a manner calculated to bring the least difficulty to others and of course to myself. Marriage is the obvious answer. That is my proposition.’

He was still silent and I went on: ‘Ah, I have your answer. It is what I expected. Think no more of it. You now know that I am a woman of loose morals and I understand completely—and agree with you—that such a woman is unsuited to be your wife. Your silence answers me. There is no need of words. What I have suggested is preposterous, insulting and I deserve never to be allowed again to call you my friend. Goodbye.’

I turned my horse and was preparing to gallop off when he called my name.

I stopped and looked at him.

‘You … you bewilder me,’ he said.

‘I realize, of course, that I have behaved most unconventionally. Goodbye.’

‘No. Give me time. I want to think.’

‘The more you think the more you will realize how impossible my suggestion is. I made it because you told me you loved me. You spoke with some vehemence, and as marriage with you would provide a way out for me I suggested it. But at the same time I see that it is out of the question. Goodbye.’

I heard his words as I galloped away.

‘Give … me time.’

That afternoon he came over to Far Flamstead. Phoebe came to tell me that he had called and was asking to speak to me. Once again we went into the garden. It was not the weather for walking and there was a hint of snow to come in the darkening clouds.

‘Bersaba,’ he said, ‘I want you to marry me.’

A warm glow of something I could not understand came over me then. I almost loved him, for I knew how my condition must appear to a man of his Puritan outlook. He must indeed love me; or was it that potent attraction I had which was a kind of promised passion and which I was discovering men were aware of?

‘And you would be father to another man’s child?’

‘I would, since it is yours also.’

‘Luke,’ I said, ‘you are either a very noble man or you love me very much.’

‘I love you very much,’ he said.

‘Is it a tender love or is it an irresistible desire for me?’

‘It is both. Whose child is it?’

‘Do you think you should know?’

‘I know already. There seems only one whom it could be. Your sister’s husband.’ I saw his lips turn down with anger. ‘Why?’ he cried in anger. ‘How could you … How could he?’

‘For the same reason that you, the Puritan, will go against your principles. You will marry a woman such as I am. Would you have believed it of yourself … before you met me?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘Then don’t question these matters. They are … because they are. We are made as we are, and for some of us our natural impulses are too great to be resisted. Mine, his and yours. If I marry you there will be no recrimination. From the day we have taken our vows, this child of mine will be yours and you will think of it as such. Do not think I am not conscious of what you are doing. I love you for it, Luke. I promise you I will be a good and faithful wife and I will give you a son of your own … though you must not mind too much if it should be a daughter …’

‘I want to marry you,’ he said. ‘It shall be as you say. The marriage must take place soon because of the child.’

‘Secretly?’ I said.

‘Without delay. It must be thought that we are already married. I shall have to tell Ella, but she will think the child is mine.’

‘Not only will you marry me but you will tell lies for my sake?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I will do this. There has come to me that which I longed for and I must not complain of the manner in which it has come.’

I held out my hand to him. ‘You will be a good husband to me, Luke,’ I said, ‘and I will do my best to be a good wife to you, I swear it.’

It was a simple ceremony in the small parlour of the farmhouse. Ella was a little shocked, for she believed we had forestalled our marriage vows; but the thought of a child was such a delight to her that she was ready to waive her disapproval, and I think she was secretly pleased to have another woman in the household, particularly as she knew I was not of the kind to interfere with the management of it.

After the ceremony I rode back to Far Flamstead. It was two days before Christmas.

‘I have something to say to you,’ I told Angelet. ‘I am married.’

She stared at me in disbelief.

‘To Luke Longridge,’ I went on.

She could not believe it. ‘You’re joking. You … married to a Puritan!’

‘Yes, why not? Puritans are good people. I think they make good husbands. However, we shall see.’

‘When?’ she demanded.

‘Well, I am already with child.’

‘So you married secretly! Why did you not go and live at the farm? Your husband was there and you were here … I don’t believe it.’

‘Don’t ask too many questions,’ I said. ‘I am with child so the marriage must have taken place some time ago.’

‘A child … When?’

‘August perhaps.’

‘Bersaba!’

‘Well, our mother always said I was unpredictable, didn’t she?’

‘What will Richard say?’

It was my turn to flush. What would he say? I felt floods of misery rushing over me. It was over—that wonderful adventure such as I had never before experienced and never would again.

‘It is not his affair,’ I said coldly.

‘He was fond of you. He looked upon himself as a sort of protector. And you married without the consent of our parents … or telling us.’

‘It is done. No one can undo it. And I am going to have a child.’

‘That will be wonderful …’ The cloud lifted from her face and she went on, ‘You will be near me. We shall not be parted. I shall ride over to the farm every day or you will come here. I shall be with you when the baby is born … I shall help you care for it.’

‘Yes, Angelet,’ I said, ‘yes.’

Then she embraced and kissed me. ‘But Luke Longridge … the Puritan! Richard won’t like it.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘He dislikes the Longridges. He says the Puritans are making trouble in the country. There are too many of them in Parliament … and they are always writing those absurd pamphlets. And then they nearly fought that duel.’

‘What a mercy they didn’t, for if they had one of us might have been without a husband.’

‘But Richard likes you, Bersaba. I know he does.’

‘Yes, I think you are right.’

‘He’ll miss talking to you. He loved those battles and the chess and all that. You’re so much cleverer at it than I. But you must come here … often.’

‘I shall have to be with my husband, and we mustn’t forget the animosity between yours and mine.’

‘It will make no difference to us.’

‘None whatever,’ I said.

Then she kissed me again and talked about the baby.

And I told Phoebe to pack my belongings, for we were going to live at Longridge.

What a strange Christmas Day that was. Angelet came to the farm to spend it there. We attended prayers in the morning when the whole of the household assembled and we all knelt while Luke prayed for our souls.

How different it was from those Christmases celebrated at Trystan and Castle Paling. Here Christmas was not a day for frivolity; we were celebrating the birth of the Lord and simply that; constant references were made to his death so there was no real rejoicing in his birth.

The table was not loaded with the fancy dishes we had had at home. There was plain pig with some lark pie and we drank the home-brewed ale. Grace was said before the meal and it was all undertaken with a religious solemnity.

Afterwards we talked about the meaning of Christmas, and I could not resist describing some of the festivities we had indulged in at home, and Angelet joined with me explaining how we had elected the Lord of Misrule on Twelfth Night who had been carried on the shoulders of some of the more stalwart guests to make crosses on the beams in order to ensure good luck in the coming years.

Luke and his sister considered this pagan and insisted that Christmas had one meaning and one only.

I found a certain pleasure in teasing Luke. He knew this and did not dislike it because he was aware that it was in a measure an indication of my affection for him. For I was fond of him. I could even share a certain passion with him which might seem strange after my protestations about Richard. Richard was the man for me; he was my love; but so was I made that that did not prevent my dalliance with a man who appealed to me physically as my husband did. There was a certain amount of gratitude in my feelings for him; I could not forget that he had overcome all his scruples in order to possess me, and to a woman of my nature that meant a good deal.

I was, too, becoming interested in the child, thinking about it, longing for its birth. I knew its coming would change me in some way. Perhaps I was not the maternal type as my own mother was. Perhaps my mate would always be of more importance to me than the result of our union. That might have been so with Richard but it might not with Luke.

Life and people interested me; and of course I was more interested in myself than anyone else; and when I discovered new traits in my own nature I was tremendously intrigued.

I know that Angelet returned to Far Flamstead quite bewildered, asking herself what I had done.

January came. I was becoming increasingly aware of the life growing within me; and this did much to assuage the pain I felt because I had lost the man I should love best for as long as I lived.

He returned in January. I imagined his riding home thinking of me, wondering how we would contrive to be together. He had shocked me a little when he had admitted knowing of my deception from the first. True, I had often felt he must, but he had made no sign of it when we met afterwards and that showed a certain secretiveness in his nature; but then a man must be secretive when he has secrets to hide. And when I had gone to him again he had shown so clearly that the cold man whom Angelet knew was by no means the true one. As thus with Luke—perhaps most of all with Luke, the stern Puritan—who had married me not so much to help me but to make love to me under the protecting cloak of holy matrimony. I thought in the years to come when passion is no longer so insistent he will tell himself that he married me to save me because of the ignominious position into which I had brought myself. I would remind him then of his eagerness to possess me. I would remember these things and make it so that he should not revel in the satisfaction self-righteousness brings to a Puritan.

Life was full of interest, and although I yearned for Richard and deeply mourned his loss, I could think longingly of the child who would be born in August.

Richard sought me out. He rode over to Longridge but did not call on us. I saw him from a window riding by, and I got into my riding-habit, saddled my horse and went out to meet him.

Our horses faced each other and I saw the look of shocked bewilderment in Richard’s face.

‘Bersaba!’ he cried. ‘Married to Luke Longridge! How could you do that? Oh my God, I understand. Angelet told me you are to have a child.’

‘It is true, Richard. I saw this as a way out and I took it.’

‘Because of our child?’

‘Yes, because of our child.’

‘There could have been a solution.’

‘Oh yes, you could have set me up in an establishment perhaps. You could have visited me now and then. It was not the life I had planned for myself.’

‘But what of us?’

‘What of us? There was no future for us. You are married to my sister. A madness overtook us … me if you like, for I take the blame. You followed when I beckoned. Oh, very willingly, you’ll remember. Nevertheless I was the one who led you on to the downward slippery path. Then there was Luke. He had asked me to marry him. He would provide the paternity for the child, so I married him.’

‘He will know …’

‘He already knows. I told him the reason I would marry him.’

‘Does he know that I am the father of the child?’

‘He knows. He must know. He is one of the chief performers in our little piece. He must know what the play is all about.’

‘And he is willing?’

‘He loves me. He is a good husband. I will not let him make a little Puritan of our child. But that is for later.’

‘Bersaba, you behave so …’

‘So immodestly, so different from the manner in which young ladies should? I am myself, Richard, and I make no excuses for it. Our problems will never be faced by trying to push them aside in order to forget them, for they won’t be pushed aside. They won’t be forgotten. I have sinned. I am to bear a child. Well, I have told Luke that I needed him for a husband and I have promised him that I will be a faithful wife to him and in time bear him children. I shall keep my promises. It would be easier if you and I met as little as possible.’ He bowed his head. ‘Which will be far from easy.’ ‘It is not easy,’ I said, ‘for you are my sister’s husband and we shall perforce meet sometimes. We must not allow ourselves to fall into temptation again. We have both been fortunate, and this child will always be there to remind me of what I once shared with you. Nothing can be the same for me again but it is over. Goodbye, Richard, my lover. When we meet again you will be only Richard; my sister’s husband.’

I turned my horse and I did not look at him. My poor beloved, with his unloved Angelet and his sad secret of his mock castle.

In the August of 1641 my child was born—a girl—and I called her Arabella. Luke and Ella wished her to be called Patience or Mercy, but I stood out against them and I had my way, as I did over most things in that household.

She was a perfect child and quickly became beautiful. I had refused to consider that my child might be malformed, although the idea had occurred to me. I know it did to Richard. That grim spectre must have been hanging over him ever since the monster child was born and he would wonder, I knew, whether some taint in him had made such a child.

As soon as my daughter was put into my arms and I examined her perfect little body, I was filled with delight; in a few weeks it became apparent that she was exceptionally bright. I knew very well that all parents think this of their children, but at least I could assure myself that, motherly prejudice aside, my Arabella was a normal child.

Ella adored her. Luke eyed her with some suspicion, but that was to be expected; as for myself, I was almost idolatrous, so that my little girl was assured of an abundance of love.

When Angelet beheld her she was in ecstasies. She started to discover similarities in the child’s features to our mother and to ourselves. My poor dear Angelet, she would, I guessed, have made a better mother than I would; and when I saw her with my child in her arms I felt remorse because this child should have been hers.

I was glad it was a girl. A boy might have shown a stronger resemblance to his father, and I did not want Luke to be reminded. He had done so much for me and I was growing more fond of him. We argued continuously and I had to admit to taking the opposite side of a subject merely to provoke him. He knew this and enjoyed it. Strangely enough, our marriage was a happy one which, considering our opposing natures, was in itself a miracle. But I knew of course that it owed its success to that physical union which he as a Puritan preferred to forget.

That was a momentous year for England. I felt remote from politics in my new domesticity. Even a woman such as myself must change when she bears a child. For the months before and after her birth Arabella was of more importance to me than anything.

One of the first acts of the new Parliament was to demand the impeachment of Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, who had been the King’s chief adviser when the conflict with Scotland had arisen and the victorious Scots had encroached on English soil so that part of the north was in their hands. Strafford had energetically suggested all kinds of unwelcome methods, such as loans from abroad, the debasement of the coinage and bringing in an Irish army to help fight Scotland and to threaten those in England who were showing signs of rebellion. The King and Strafford worked closely together and the Earl had been appointed Lieutenant General of the Army.

I often wished when I heard this that I could have sat in the library with Richard and discussed this matter. I knew that it would cause him grave concern.

So Strafford was impeached, his trial had taken place and he was found guilty and sentenced to death, for the fact that he had threatened to bring in the Irish to subdue if necessary rebellious Englishmen was construed as treason. The King was in a quandary. He wished to save his friend with whose policies he had been in agreement, and when the death warrant was placed before him for some time he prevaricated.

Luke used to pace up and down our bedroom talking of this.

‘Strafford must die,’ he declared. ‘And the day he does the King is in a very uneasy position.’

And finally the King had signed the death warrant and Strafford was executed.

That had been in May, three months before Arabella was born. I was enough aware of what was happening in the country to realize that this event was the most momentous so far and that the cloud which had been on the horizon was now overhead.

But then I was a woman whose child would come into the world in three months’ time; and that seemed of greater importance to me than anything else.

Events kept Richard away from home. Whether he stayed away more than he needed, I did not know. It seemed that he no longer suggested that Angelet should join him in Whitehall. She told me that the situation was too serious for any thought of entertaining there. He was constantly attending conferences with his fellow generals.

Once he came over and rode out to the farm. He must have hung around waiting for me. I saw him, and as on that other occasion I went out to see him. That was in May of ’42. Arabella was nine months old—as healthy a child as any parents could wish to see.

Richard looked at me yearningly, and all the old desire was immediately there between us as I leaned over the pales to talk to him.

‘I had to see you,’ he said. ‘We are on the brink of war. God knows what will become of us all.’

‘I know. And you and my husband will be on opposing sides.’

He waved that aside as though it were unimportant. ‘The child …’ he said.

‘She is the most beautiful child in the world.’

‘A perfect child?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Wait a while,’ and I went into the house and brought her out to him.

He looked at her in something like adoration while she regarded him with dignified solemnity.

‘A perfect child,’ he said, and I knew that he was thinking of that monster shut up in the castle. ‘It is like you,’ he went on, ‘to show me that I could have a perfect child.’

‘I never doubted that my child would be,’ I answered.

‘Oh, Bersaba, thank you for that brief happiness.’

‘Was it happiness?’ I asked.

‘For a few hours, yes,’ he answered.

‘At least it happened,’ I said. ‘But it is over now. She will always be here to remind me.’

I held her close to me and I thought: She is my consolation; she is my comfort. And I thought: Poor Richard, who lacks that comfort.

‘You are content in your marriage?’ he asked.

‘As content as I could be away from you.’

‘Bersaba … you say such words that delight me … and yet fill me with hopelessness.’

‘You have Angelet. She is a part of me. She is good and I am far from good. Try to remember that.’

‘I try to be kind to her. I would that she did not sometimes remind me of you. Every time I look at her …’

‘Goodbye, Richard.’

‘I do not know when we shall meet again. There is about to be a bloody war … the worst kind of war, Bersaba … I can happily fight the Spaniards or the French. It is a different matter when it must be my own countrymen. The country is split. The north and the west, Wales and Cornwall are for the King, and here in the south east and the manufacturing districts they are for the Parliament. We shall soon subdue the enemy, never fear, but there will be a violent struggle first.’

I left him then and carried my baby into the farmhouse.

I had lost him; I would never know that ecstasy which he alone could give me; and he was a sad and lonely man who was about to be drawn into a conflict distasteful to him. But I should never forget his face as he had looked at our child—our perfect little girl, our Arabella.

At least I had done something for him.

In August of that year Arabella was a year old the King set up his standard at Nottingham. By that time I was pregnant with Luke’s child.

Luke was in a state of great excitement. That which he had been preaching against for so long was about to be destroyed. He was certain of the success of the Parliamentary cause as Richard had been for that of the Royalists.

People were beginning to talk of Cavaliers and Roundheads. The Cavaliers were so called by those people who had attacked the officers of the Court who circled about Whitehall; it was meant to be an abusive epithet implying that these gentlemen were of loose morals and idle. The term Roundhead was said to have come into use during one of the increasingly numerous riots when a certain officer had drawn his sword against the mob. He had shouted that he would cut the throats of those round-headed dogs who bawled against the bishops.

At this time the Royalists appeared to have everything in their favour. The trained army was Royalist, while the Parliament had only those who went to fight with a great belief in the righteousness of their cause. As Puritans they believed that God must help them, for they saw themselves as His people, but God was not responsive. The battles of Edgehill and Brentford were indecisive, and the following spring the Cornish Royalists had claimed the West for the King.

Luke’s son was born in February. I called him Lucas. He was like his father but slightly different, and my pleasure in my babies absorbed me. Angelet came over to the farmhouse to be with me whenever she could, but she was never sure when Richard would come to Far Flamstead. Not that he often did. He was too much concerned with the fighting.

As with such conflicts, the excitement and hopes with which they began soon petered out and the great depression and reality remained, for it had become clear that there was going to be no easy victory for either side. I felt myself torn in this conflict. My instincts were to support the Royalists. I knew the King was weak; I knew that he had acted foolishly; I knew that he was stubborn and that he must be brought to reason; but at the same time I did not wish to see our country ruled by those who thought pleasure sinful. I felt a certain need in me to support Luke, which amazed me. I caught something of his enthusiasm for his cause; there was so much that was good in it. I was torn between the two and felt that I could not have served either side with the zest that was needed for victory.

Luke was depressed by the way things were going. He used to say that the soldiers were untrained and an army was needed which could stand up to the King’s disciplined forces. He had the idea of forming his own troop. There were many ready to join. All his farm workers and others from families round came to join. They drilled on our fields and learned the arts of war.

There was much talk now of a man called Oliver Cromwell, who had joined the army as a captain, and he was clearly one to be reckoned with. Luke spoke of him in glowing terms. He was reorganizing the army. It was no longer going to be a straggling mob of men who had no weapons and no skills—little but their fervent belief in the right. Belief in the right there must be, but skill too. ‘Captains must be good honest men.’ Cromwell was quoted as having said, ‘and then good honest men will follow them. A plain russet-coated captain who knows what he is fighting for and loves it I would rather have than what you call a gentleman and nothing else.’ Such words were inspiring, and all over the country those who believed gave themselves up to the task of turning themselves into soldiers.

The months passed and we were at war in earnest. Luke had gone off with his troop and none of us could guess what the outcome would be.

Those dreary years of war, how sickening they were! What a snare it was, for it could bring little good to either side. Much of the country was laid waste; we lived in a state of agonizing expectation during the first months and then we were lulled to something near indifference. Much of the corn was ruined; the Puritans were destroying many ancient treasures because they believed that beauty in itself was evil and that no man should look on something and find it entrancing—architecture, statuary, paintings—for if it gave pleasure it was evil.

When I heard of such destruction I was ardently Royalist; when I thought of Court extravagances and the stubborn nature of the King I was for the Parliament; but more often I had the inclination to curse them both.

I was thinking of Richard, who was in constant danger. Each day I feared that there would be news of his death or capture. There was Luke too who had trained his troop and gone off to fight. It was possible that one day these two would be in the same deadly battle.

‘How stupid it is,’ I cried, ‘to fight and kill to settle differences.’

‘What other way is there?’ asked Angelet.

‘We have words, have we not? Why don’t we use them?’

‘They would never agree. They have tried words and failed.’

Yes, Luke had tried with his pamphlets, but Luke could never see more than one side of this argument. Nor could Richard.

So we waited and lived our lives when the days were long and there were few visitors and the talk was all of war—how this side was winning and then shortly after how it was losing. How Cromwell and Fairfax would soon find their heads on London Bridge; how the King would soon have no throne.

And all the time we waited for news.

Angelet and I saw each other frequently. She would come to the farmhouse more often than I went to her because of the children. She adored them. Arabella was growing up to be like me—self-willed and determined to get what she wanted. Lucas was too young to show what he would be like; but he was a sweet cherubic infant.

Poor Angelet! How she would have longed to have had children and would have been a better mother than I, I suspected. How perverse of nature to have made me, the sensualist, the mother while giving Angelet the qualities needed to rear them.

Strangely enough the children adored me. As soon as Lucas could toddle he would cling to my skirts and look unhappy if his hand were disengaged. They were of course fond of their Aunt Angelet, but I was the centre of their lives.

When Lucas was a year old Phoebe came to tell me that Thomas Greer, one of the farm workers, had asked for her and she would marry him if I gave my consent. I said it was ideal and she could still work with me after she was married, the only difference being that she would live in his cottage instead of sleeping in the house. So Phoebe married and almost immediately became pregnant.

Angelet and I were anxious as to what was happening in Cornwall, although there were reports that that part of the country was firmly in the hands of the Royalists. There was no news of course, because it was not easy to get messages from one side to another of a country plagued by civil war.

So we waited and hoped for news. Snatches of it came to us from time to time, but it went on as before—first one side was victorious and then another; and there was no sign of the end of the war.

It was July of ’44. Lucas was a year and five months old and Arabella was three. The day began like any other. The sky though was leaden and there was a stillness in the air. I had not seen Angelet that day and I had busied myself with the care of the children and wondered whether what corn there was could be safely brought in. In the days before the war we had been concerned with the weather; now there was a greater enemy—the Royalist army for us, the Parliamentary one for Angelet. Luke was well known among his enemies as a man who had worked assiduously to further the cause of the Parliament. His writings had done a great deal to inflame opinion. I often reminded myself that he was a marked man and that one day they would take revenge. I used to keep the children with me at night. Now I watched over them myself, for Phoebe was sleeping in the farm cottage with her husband and her time was getting near. I must be ready at any time of the day or night to snatch up my children and escape the vengeance of Luke’s enemies.

I had developed a habit of light sleeping as people will when there may be something to need their attention at a moment’s notice. And that night I was awakened suddenly by the sound of whispering voices below my window.

I was out of bed, glancing at the children asleep in their cribs, and I went at once to the window.

There were people below.

Oh God, I thought, the Cavaliers have come for their revenge.

I was about to gather up the children when I heard a clanging at the door. I could not escape that way. I would have to face them. I would tell them that General Tolworthy was my brother-in-law, that I was not a Puritan although married to one, and my children were not Puritans …

Boldly I went to the door.

A man was standing there. I recognized him at once by his plain garments and cropped head as a Roundhead.

‘You are Mistress Longridge?’ said the man.

‘I am.’

‘Your husband is here … come all the way from the Moor. He is wounded and would have us bring him to you.’

I ran past him. Luke was being held up by two men. There was blood over his doublet and his face was deathly pale.

‘Luke!’ I cried.

I saw the smile on his terribly pallid features.

‘Bersaba …’ he whispered.

‘Carry him in,’ I commanded. ‘He is badly wounded.’

‘’Tis so indeed, mistress.’

I led the way into the farmhouse and they brought him in. They took him to one of the bedrooms.

Ella came out.

I said: ‘They have brought Luke home. Badly wounded.’

They laid him on the bed.

One of the men shook his head and said: ‘He is sorely tried, mistress.’

I said: ‘There is no time to lose. Wake the servants. We need hot water … bandages … I must attend to him.’

Ella said to me: ‘Stay with him. He wants you there. I will see to the rest.’

I could trust her. Good calm Ella!

His hand moved towards me and I took it.

‘Luke,’ I whispered. ‘You’re home. You’ll get well. I shall nurse you. You will stay at home … out of this accursed war.’

‘’Tis good …’ he murmured.

‘Good to be home, Luke?’

‘To be with you,’ he murmured.

I bent close to him. His skin was clammy and very cold.

‘We’re going to make you well. Ella and I will look after you.’

He closed his eyes.

One of the men said to me: ‘We’ve come from Marston Moor, mistress. There’s many dead up there. But it was victory … victory for us … and Cromwell.’

‘Marston Moor …’ I cried.

‘’Twas a long journey and he would have us make it. He said he must see you before he died.’

‘He’s not going to die,’ I said firmly. ‘We are going to nurse him.’

They did not answer. They just looked at me with sorrowing eyes.

Only when we removed his garments did we see the terrible extent of his wounds. Ella looked at me and murmured: ‘It is the will of God. He fought for what he believed to be right.’

But I was angry that men should destroy each other with their deadly weapons when they had been given minds to reason and tongues with which to speak.

‘I shall save him,’ I cried. ‘I will.’

It was as though I shook my fist at Fate, at God. I’ll not submit to Your will. I’ll not let You take him, for it is so stupid for a young life to be taken in this way.

But it was I who was foolish, for how could I pit myself against the forces of nature?

I stayed with him, for my presence was the only comfort I could give him, and Ella left us because she understood her brother well.

He talked as he died, rambling a little and often incoherent, but I knew what he was telling me.

‘We’re going to win … This will be remembered … The battle of Marston Moor … Cromwell … victory … The end of evil rule … Bersaba … my love … Bersaba … ’

‘Yes, Luke. I am here. I shall always be here while you want me.’

‘It was good … was it not …?’

I put my lips close to his ear and said: ‘It was good.’

‘There is the boy. Little Lucas. Love him …’

‘He is my son, Luke … mine and yours …’

‘Such happiness …Perhaps it was sinful …’

‘Never, never!’ I cried vehemently. ‘How could it be when it brought us Lucas?’

He smiled.

‘The cause is won,’ he said. ‘It was worthwhile … everything … and you, Bersaba …’

‘Yes, Luke. I am here.’

‘I loved you. Perhaps it was wrong …’

‘It was right … absolutely right. And I love you, Luke.’

‘Stay with me,’ he said.

And I did until he died.

So I was a widow, and my hatred of the war intensified. It seemed I had deeply cared for him because I was beside myself with grief.

‘What do I care who wins if only they will stop.’

I mourned for Luke and I was thinking of Richard, who was in the thick of the fight.

Angelet came over to mourn with me.

‘My poor, poor Bersaba. I can understand so well. You see, there is Richard.’

‘Yes,’ I said ironically, ‘there is Richard.’

‘But we must not let the children see our grief.’

She was right. They were our salvation.

Poor Ella, this was her greatest tragedy. She had loved her brother and they had always been together. But she had her belief in the rightness of the cause to sustain her.

‘He lost his life at Marston Moor,’ she said, ‘but he lost it fighting for the right and that battle is going to prove decisive.’

And Richard? I thought. What of Richard?

Angelet wanted us to go to her that Christmas, but I would not, for I could not ask Ella to spend Christmas in a Royalist household when her brother had been killed by them.

‘And you, Bersaba?’ she asked.

‘I care not for either side,’ I answered, ‘and you are my sister. I think I care more for people than ideas. I doubt not there are faults on both sides and we cannot expect Utopia whoever wins. I don’t know what I prefer—the mismanagement of the King or the strictures of the Parliament—perhaps the former, for I am no Puritan. But we cannot say until we have experienced it. No, I care only that they stop this senseless war, this killing of families.’

‘Oh, Bersaba, you are right. You always are. You are so clever. I would those in high places could take your advice.’

I laughed at her. ‘Nay, I am as foolish as the rest,’ I said.

I said that she should come to the farm for Christmas so that we could all be together, and later on in the year when the spring came I would bring the children over to Far Flamstead for a few days. I said I would bring Phoebe with me and that would mean having her young Thomas, for in these times I could not separate them … even if she had someone to leave him with.

‘You should have a new maid now that Phoebe is married and has a baby,’ said Angelet.

‘No one could serve me as Phoebe does. I shall keep her as long as I can. The children will be delighted to come to Flam-stead. They are real little Royalists, I believe.’

So it was arranged.

Richard came home in May. I did not see him and he stayed only a few days. Angelet came to Longridge after he left. She looked radiant and I supposed that was due to his visit.

‘I did not suggest that you come to see him, Bersaba,’ she told me. ‘I should have, of course, if he had stayed longer. He is very uneasy. He says that things are not going well for the King’s army. Men like Fairfax and Cromwell are making soldiers of their followers and their religious fervour gives them something which the professional soldier lacks. That’s what he said. When are you coming to Flamstead? You promised to bring the children, you know.’

So it was arranged and a few days later I with the children and Phoebe went to Far Flamstead.

I was in the enclosed rose garden with the children, Angelet and Phoebe when one of the servants came running out to us, his face set and tense so that I knew before he spoke that some further calamity had overtaken us.

He cried: ‘One of the hands from Longridge is here, mistress. He’s put out terrible.’

I was filled with foreboding. I was still shocked from that night when they had brought home the dying Luke. I knew that anything could happen, and we must not be surprised how terrible it might be. Now I knew that something was happening at the farm and I secretly thanked God that my children were safe at Flamstead.

I recognized the man at once. He was Jack Treble, one of the farm workers.

When he saw me he shouted: ‘They have come, mistress. They be at the farm. They have laid it to waste, mistress. I hid myself and got away. It be finished, mistress … finished.’

I said: ‘Be calm, Jack. Tell me what happened.’

‘It was the Cavaliers, mistress. They come and I heard them shouting that it was the home of Luke Longridge, the pamphlet man, and that they would teach him a lesson.’

‘Oh God,’ I cried out involuntarily, ‘he has already had his lesson.’

‘Reckon they did know it, mistress. They laid waste the place … and they be … dead, mistress … them as tried to stop them …’

‘Mistress Longridge?’ I began.

‘I wouldn’t know, mistress. I was hid there in the shrubbery … close to the ground … not daring to move … never knowing whether they’d find me like. I dursn’t move. I heard ’em … The noise were shocking and the cries, mistress. There be terrible slaughter there of them that tried to protect the farm. They be gone now, though. It happened this morning … I lay there a good half-hour, mistress, not daring to come out lest they should see me and put an end of me. Then I came here … I walked. There were no horses left. They took the horses … They took everything they could lay their hands to.’

I said: ‘I shall go back.’

Angelet had joined me. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t go back. What if they’re there?’

‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘I have to find Ella.’

They tried to stop me. Poor Phoebe was in a panic. Her Thomas Greer would have been there.

‘Why didn’t he come with Jack Treble?’ she kept saying, and the tragic answer to that seemed clear enough.

Of one thing I was determined. I was going to Longridge.

Angelet insisted on coming with me and I could not dissuade her, so together we set out, taking with us two of the grooms.

What desolation met our eyes. Was this Longridge Farm? It stood there—as though boldly defying the intruder—but when one grew near the destruction was obvious. Before the shell of the house lay the bodies of two of the farm workers. I recognized Thomas Greer and I went to him at once. He was dead. My poor, poor Phoebe!

Ella was lying on the farmhouse floor among the wreckage. In her hand was an axe. She must have tried to defend her home. Poor brave Ella! How futile she would be against those soldiers!

The cask of ale was turned on its side and its contents had run all over the kitchen floor; they had broken everything they could, the beams had been torn down—only the walls of the house still stood.

I knelt by Ella and a wild anger filled me. I hated them all—all those who had killed first Luke and then Ella. I wanted no more of this conflict.

How can anything matter when it is achieved through this, I cried, and I felt sick with my pain and anger.

I could not mount the stairs, for they had been torn up. There was a hole in the ceiling through which a bedpost hung. This farmhouse, the home of Longridges for generations, had been destroyed in a single day.

Angelet was beside me, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Bersaba, my dearest sister,’ she sobbed.

I put my arms about her to comfort her, but she went on sobbing while I looked about at the destruction of my home.

I said: ‘The children are safe. Let us be thankful for that. My husband is dead, my sister in marriage is dead, my home is in ruins, but thank You, oh merciful God, for leaving me my children.’

‘You must not blaspheme, Bersaba.’

‘No!’ I cried. ‘I must stand by and thank God for mercies received. Is that it? My husband is recently dead. Do you understand that?’

She said: ‘You were always angry in your grief.’

‘Oh, the cruelty of it,’ I mourned. ‘You see, Angelet, I have lost my husband. I have lost my home … I have lost so much that was dear to me.’

‘You have me, Bersaba,’ she said, ‘and while I am here you will always have a home.’

I turned to her then and I believe I was weeping too, though I was not conscious of it.

She said: ‘Come away, my dearest sister, come away with me. I am going to take you back with me. Your home will be my home. We shall never be parted unless it is your wish.’

Then she led me away and I returned with her to Far Flamstead.

As we crossed the threshold she said: ‘Oh, this is cruel … cruel.’

And I was the one who answered firmly: ‘It is war.’