Saraband for Two Sisters

Fear in the House

YESTERDAY, BERSABA CAME BACK to live at Far Flamstead. I keep thinking of the desolation of the farm and the look in her eyes when she spoke so bitterly of all that had befallen her. My poor Bersaba! So she did indeed love Luke. I often wondered because the marriage seemed so incongruous.

He loved her deeply. Once he said to me: ‘When Bersaba comes into a room she lights it up.’ And I knew what he meant. I don’t think he could have told me more clearly how he loved her.

There is nothing entirely bad in life, I believe. Even with all that has happened we have the dear little children here: Arabella, Lucas and poor Phoebe’s Thomas. I love to see them running about in the gardens and listen to their shrieks as they run about. That must be balm to Bersaba’s grief.

I am so relieved that she is here. Sometimes the house frightens me. It always did; then Bersaba came and I wasn’t afraid. Then she went away but it was not far and I could go to the farm often. But now she is here again and that at least pleases me.

There has always been something about the house which frightens me. There is the castle, for instance. When I see those walls I start to imagine all sorts of things. I can never forget the nightmare I had once. I believe I did see a man’s face there, but as time passes and everyone else thinks it was a nightmare I begin to believe that too.

I have come to the conclusion, though, that there is something in the castle which has to be hidden, and while these thoughts insist I must be uneasy in my mind. I have asked Richard about it, but he becomes so displeased and says that it might be dangerous to go in there and that is why he built the wall; I want to talk about it to him but I dare not.

I have a secret now which I haven’t told anyone, not even Bersaba, though I expect now that she is here in the house she will worm it out of me. I think I rather want her to.

It may be that I am going to have a child. When Richard came home last time and we were together, I prayed and prayed then that I might have a child and I really believe my prayers were answered.

If I could, everything would be so worthwhile. When I see Bersaba with her two and Phoebe with hers I am envious of them. I would give anything for a child.

I am sure Richard wants one too. It would make things easier between us, perhaps. I have never really understood him. He has never been close to me … not as Luke was with Bersaba. She used to tease him about matters which were sacred to him, argue with him, seek to discountenance him—and he seemed to enjoy it, which seemed to me so strange but somehow indicated a closeness between them. Of course I was never able to juggle with words as she could. And then when he said that about the room lighting up it showed me so clearly what she was to him.

It is a terrible tragedy that she has lost him, but then, as I constantly tell her, she has the children.

And now I believe I am to have one.

It’s a strange feeling I have that makes me want to keep it secret. I do have strange fancies. I think it’s this house because I never had them at Trystan. When I go to the Castle Room I seem to sense Magdalen there and it is as though she is my friend. One doesn’t hear voices—that is probably madness—but the conviction comes into the mind, and while I was sitting doing my needlework—this was when I first suspected that I might be pregnant—the idea came to me that Magdalen was there with me.

Keep it a secret, she seemed to be telling me. Keep it a secret for as long as you can.

I had the same feeling too in the chapel. I have to admit I often go to the chapel. I go there to pray, I tell myself, but it is not only that. I feel drawn there. From the first moment I entered it I felt a repulsion and yet a fascination. It is very cold there. It’s because of the stone floor, Meg says. But it seems to me a special sort of coldness. It draws me and repels me.

It was when I was kneeling at the altar that this conviction came to me.

Wait … don’t tell, it seemed to say. Keep your secret for as long as you can.

It is very hard to keep a joyous secret which one wants to shout from the turret tops, yet so strong was the conviction that I have done so … so far.

Bersaba has been a week at Far Flamstead. I think Richard will be pleased when he returns. He will realize of course that I had to bring her here, for she had lost her home. But I think he liked her being here. He seemed different when she was. He used to enjoy those games they played before the war and I could see how her battle tactics—which I have no doubt were outrageous—used to amuse him. I don’t think he minded her beating him at chess either. I watched him while he was playing and there used to be a faint colour under his skin, and now and then I would see him lift his eyes and look at her.

We heard from our mother shortly after Bersaba’s arrival. The messenger had taken letters to the farm and finding it destroyed had come on to Flamstead. I was so glad that I received those letters because I could imagine my mother’s distress if the messenger had gone back and told her what he had seen at the farm.

The West Country was fairly quiet, she wrote. She wished that we were with her. At times like this it was good for families to be together. She wanted news of the babies. She longed to see them but she would be terrified if we attempted to cross the country at such a time. We would understand her anxieties and she knew we would seize every opportunity to send news to her.

We wrote at once telling her about the disaster at the farm. She already knew of Luke’s death. It would comfort her to know that we were together.

When the messenger had left we talked and talked about home and our parents, and when we went to our rooms I found Grace there instead of Meg.

‘Meg has a headache, my lady,’ said Grace. ‘I said I’d come in her place.’

‘Poor Meg. She must ask Mrs Cherry for something.’

‘She will, my lady, if it gets worse. It is a sorry matter for Mistress Longridge, but happy, I said to Meg, that she be here with you.’

‘Yes. I am glad that I am able to have her with me. She has suffered terribly.’

‘And it will be good for you to have her here when your time comes, my lady.’

Grace was watching me intently and I felt the colour rising to my cheeks.

‘When … my time comes …’ I repeated foolishly.

‘Well, I could be mistook but I don’t think so. I know the signs … It’s being so much with it, you might say.’

‘You … know?’

Grace nodded slowly.

So my secret was out.

I wanted to tell Bersaba first so I did that day. She was silent for a while. Then she said: ‘It was when he came home in May.’

I nodded and noticed that her mouth turned down momentarily and she looked almost angry. I was filled with sympathy, for I guessed she was thinking of Luke,

Then she smiled and said: ‘You’ll have to take care this time, Angelet.’

‘I am determined to.’

‘I wonder if it will be a boy,’ she mused. ‘He would like that.’

Then she talked about how she had waited for the births of Arabella and Lucas and it was very cosy. I was happy because I felt that my state was taking her mind off her own terrible tragedy.

Because of the war we had very few servants now. There were only the Cherrys, Jesson, Meg and Grace. Jesson managed the stables with two young boys from the village to help him. They weren’t old enough to go to the war, but if it continued I supposed when they were we should lose them.

This had made a different relationship between us. We were more intimate and Mrs Cherry had become more of a friend than a servant. It might have been because the Royalist cause was being undermined and a great many people were predicting a Parliamentary victory which would have an equalising effect on society.

She came into my room one day and said I was looking peaky and she had a good pick-me-up tonic. ‘You can’t beat herb-twopence,’ she told me. ‘I’ve always said that was a cure for every ailment under the sun.’

‘I’m afraid of taking tonics, Mrs Cherry,’ I said. ‘I want everything to be natural …’

‘My patience me,’ she cried, her cherry face wrinkling up with mirth. ‘If herb-twopence ain’t the most natural thing on God’s earth, my name’s not Emmy Cherry. A little dash of it would do you the world of good.’

‘As a matter of fact I feel very well indeed. If I look a little wan, it’s nothing.’

‘Well, we’ve got to take care of you. You’ve got your sister back again. I reckon she’ll keep her eye on you.’

‘I’m sure she will. And she’s experienced too.’

‘Then we’ve got Grace. We’re lucky, I reckon that’s what. Does the General know?’ Her eyes were sharp suddenly.

‘Not yet. It’s not possible to reach him. We don’t know where he is. This terrible war …’

‘So he don’t know yet.’ She shook her head. ‘If you was to be able to get in touch,’ she said, ‘tell him it’ll be all right, will you? Tell him that Cherry and me will see everything’s all right.’

‘I will, Mrs Cherry. You’re fond of the General, I know.’

‘Well, you might say that was putting it mild like. Cherry thinks the world of him. Served with him. Would be with him now if he was fit and well … like the rest of them. And all the time I’ve been here … well, I’ve got to look on him … more than a mere master.’

‘He is a man who inspires great respect.’

She lowered her eyes to hide her emotion, I guessed. Then she said brightly: ‘Well, if you was feeling a bit under the weather you come to me, my lady. I reckon you won’t be scorning my herb-twopence once you’ve felt its effects.’

When she left me I went to Bersaba and told her that Mrs Cherry thought I ought to try some of her cures.

‘Do you remember Mrs Cherry’s soothing mixture?’ I asked.

‘It sent you to sleep, didn’t it?’

‘I don’t sleep very well now,’ I told her. ‘Sometimes I have strange dreams. I told you how once I went to the Castle Room and saw a face there … or thought I did. I’m sure I did. It was at night and I took a candle. Mrs Cherry came and found me there. She thought I was walking in my sleep.’

‘Were you?’ asked Bersaba.

‘No. I’m sure I wasn’t. I saw a light in the castle from my room and then I went up and saw the face. I thought it was Strawberry John … a man I once saw in the woods. But they didn’t believe me any of them, and after that I lost the baby.’

Bersaba said: ‘And you think the two incidents were connected?’

‘They all said so. I had a fright, you see, and that can bring on a miscarriage, can’t it?’

‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ said Bersaba. And I told her.

‘Did Richard know?’

‘Oh yes. He thought with the rest that I’d had a nightmare.’

‘It was all connected with the castle. Did he ever talk to you about the castle?’

‘No. There are some things one can’t talk about with Richard. He withdraws himself, as it were, so that you know you mustn’t talk about it any more.’

‘You should not allow yourself to be dominated, Angelet.’

‘You don’t know Richard.’

She smiled at me, rather tenderly, I thought.

Then she said: ‘Stop thinking about the castle. Stop thinking about anything but the baby. Just imagine how overjoyed Richard will be when he knows and how happy you will be when you have your little baby to care for.’

‘I do try, Bersaba, but then all sorts of thoughts come into my mind. I wonder about Richard, where he is, whether he will ever come back … whether like Luke … and so many others …’

She gripped my hand so tightly that I winced.

‘Don’t,’ she commanded. ‘He’ll come back. I tell you he’ll come back.’

That was typical of Bersaba. Sometimes she appeared to believe that she could work miracles.

Then she started to talk about babies and she said we would make the clothes ourselves as we should never have a seamstress in these days.

It is wonderful having Bersaba with me.

It was hot that August. The wasps were thick around the plum trees; the children were tanned by the sun; we could always hear Arabella’s imperious voice above the rest. When I watched them at play I would forget the war, forget my fears for Richard, forget everything but that early next year my child would be born.

For days I lived in contentment and then I awoke one night in a state of uneasiness. I couldn’t explain what it was but it was just a strong sense of warning. It was almost as though something was warning me of danger, and the first person I thought of on waking was Magdalen—Richard’s first wife.

It may have been because she had been in the house as I had expecting a child as I was; and then she had died. Deep within me I suppose there was a fear here that because it had happened to her it could happen to me. But why? It was something in the manner of Mrs Cherry and Cherry (although he was a man of very few words), of Jesson, Grace and Meg … Yes, the attitude of every one of them had changed towards me since it had become known that I was to have a child. It was almost as though they were watching me, looking for a sign of something.

I got out of bed and went to the window. I couldn’t see the castle because I was in the Blue Room. I had not wanted to go to the bedchamber I had shared with Richard; this was more cosy. Bersaba was in the Lavender Room, very close, and all the children slept in a room with Phoebe which was immediately next to hers—so we were all together. I looked out on the peaceful lawns and thought of what had happened to Longridge Farm and how at any moment soldiers could advance and lay waste my home.

But it was not such thoughts which made me uneasy. It was something that overshadowed me alone—it was a personal fear which of course is so much more frightening than those which are shared by others.

I went to the Lavender Room and, opening the door, looked in. Bersaba was asleep. She lay on her back with her hair falling on to the pillow, showing clearly the scars on her forehead. She had always tried to disguise them, but they had not prevented Luke’s falling in love with her and loving her in his Puritan way much more fervently than Richard had ever loved me. How odd that Luke, a Puritan, should love like that. But was it something in Bersaba?

I turned away and quietly opened the door of the nursery. Moonlight showed me Arabella and Lucas on their child’s pallets and Phoebe sleeping quietly with little Thomas in his crib.

All was well. Why should I have awakened with these fears on me? And as I stood there I knew that I was being watched and I felt my nerves tingling just as they had that night in the Castle Room when I had thought a ghost was behind me and had turned to find it was Mrs Cherry.

I felt limp with terror and afraid to turn round. Then I heard Bersaba laugh softly.

‘Angel, what are you doing?’

‘Oh!’ I turned and there she was, my sister, her eyes wide with something like amusement. ‘I … I couldn’t sleep,’ I stammered.

‘You’ll catch cold wandering about like that.’

‘It’s a warm night, and what of you?’

‘You came and looked at me.’

‘So you were awake?’

‘Not completely. But I looked up and there was my sister looking at me in a very odd sort of manner.’

‘What did you mean an odd sort of manner …?’

‘As if you … suspected me of something. Do you?’

‘What should I suspect you of?’

‘You tell me.’

‘You say strange things, Bersaba.’

‘Mrs Cherry is an old gossip,’ said Bersaba. ‘Has she been talking to you?’

‘Well, only to offer me herb-twopence. She seems concerned about me.’

‘Come into my room,’ said Bersaba. I went in and we sat on her bed.

‘Everyone seems concerned about me,’ I added.

‘Well, it’s because you’re in what they call an interesting condition. They want everything to go well.’

She was looking at me intently. ‘Tell me why you thought it necessary to come looking round at us.’

‘I woke up.’

‘Not that old tooth again?’ There was a faint hint of mirth in her voice which I didn’t understand.

‘No. It was withdrawn. I was just unable to sleep.’

‘You need your sleep now.’

‘Do you think I ought to take some of Mrs Cherry’s soothing cure? I always remember how you used to give it to me. You were so determined that I was going to sleep.’

‘Was I?’

‘Oh yes. You used almost to insist that I took it and pour it out yourself.’

‘It made you sleep long and deep. You didn’t go wandering about in the night when you took it, did you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Well … it served its purpose. I think you should have a drink at night, warm milk is good for slumber. Ella used to give it to me when I was carrying Arabella and Lucas. I found it good. I’ll tell you what, I’m going to see that you have it every night.’

‘It’s nice to have you looking after me.’

‘And don’t listen to any tales the servants might tell you …’

‘Tales, Bersaba?’

‘You know what servants are. Do they ever say anything about … the castle?’

‘No. They haven’t talked of it for a long time.’

‘Servants get ideas. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’

‘As you used to over my toothache. I’ll never forget how anxious you were for me then, Bersaba.’

She rose suddenly and said: ‘I’m going to take you back to bed. Come on.’

And she tucked me in and kissed me lightly on the forehead.

I wished I could get rid of the idea that they were all watching me. It was unnerving in a way. They say that women get strange notions during pregnancies. Was that what was wrong with me? Grace was with me a good deal, for she seized every opportunity to take Meg’s place, and she gave me the impression that of all the cases she had attended mine was the extraordinary one, the one which needed extra care.

I used to go up into the Castle Room where Magdalen had sat and stitched at her embroidery. I would look out at the castle turrets and remember the night I had seen the face there. Why should I come here when it was due to what had happened here that I had lost my child before? That must not happen again.

What if I saw that face again looking out at me from the turrets? I wouldn’t be frightened this time. I would make sure that it was a real face. The idea came to me that there was someone living in the castle. Was it Strawberry John who had found a way in and used it as a sort of headquarters for his poaching expeditions? That could well be the answer.

Then there was the occasion when Bersaba and I had explored the kitchens and found that strange cupboard and what was beyond. I thought of that now and then when I was in the kitchen, but the door was always hidden by the coats and aprons hanging over it.

I mentioned this to Bersaba and she showed a lack of interest. ‘It was only a big cupboard,’ she said. ‘A very useful one in fact.’

I supposed she was right.

She was taking great care of me and I must say she made me feel cherished. She wouldn’t allow me to pick up young Lucas because she said he was too heavy and I might strain myself. She watched me all the time—just as they all did—and was always admonishing me to be careful. She used to go down to the kitchens every night and bring up a mug of hot milk. At first I would sip a little and sometimes would leave it by the bed to drink when I awakened, which I invariably did. I had never been a good sleeper and I had often wanted to talk in the old days at Trystan when Bersaba wanted to sleep.

One night I awakened and thought I heard my door close silently. I sat up in bed startled and peered about me.

The moon was on the wane and there were several clouds about, so it was not very bright. I stared at my door which was fast shut. Then I got up, opened it and looked out into the corridor. I went to the door of the Lavender Room. I wondered if Bersaba had looked in at me. Quietly I opened her door. She appeared to be fast asleep so I went back to bed.

It was a dream obviously.

I lay in bed admonishing myself. It was all this watching, all this care of me. Were all women who were expecting a child subjected to such concern? Surely not. It was a fairly commonplace occurrence.

I took up the milk and put it to my lips. Then I decided I didn’t want it. It was cold and it didn’t really make me sleep. In fact I was growing tired of it.

I tried to lull myself into contentment by wondering about the child and planning the little garments I would start on tomorrow. I had always found comfort in my needle.

I smiled to myself, thinking of Bersaba, who showed quite an interest in the clothes we made. In the past she had always been bored by needlework. What cobbles she used to make and then I had to unpick her stitches and do it for her! It was wonderful to have her with me. She never forgot to bring me my hot milk, and though I was growing tired of it I couldn’t tell her not to bring it because she seemed to enjoy doing it for me and was sure it did me so much good.

Bersaba as nurse! That was amusing and touching.

I would always remember her pouring out the dose of the soothing cure and how she used to watch me while I took it. And now there was this hot milk.

I let her bring it and it stood by my bed all night just in case she came in, and in the morning as often as not I would throw it away.

Once a party of Cavaliers came to the house. They were hungry and weary. We fed them and kept them for a night. They had served at one time, they said, with General Tolworthy. They could tell us very little of the war, but they did say it was not easy to know which way it was going. There were defeats in some places, victories in others, but we saw that there was no great hope in them. Bersaba asked if they had encountered the General, but they had not. He had been at Marston Moor, but they could not say where he had gone after that, for the forces were so scattered. They themselves could not stay and their coming had been but a temporary respite.

‘We’re a danger to you,’ they told us. ‘If the enemy were to arrive here and find us, they would destroy the place.’

‘They might do that if you are not here,’ replied Bersaba bitterly.

‘Let us hope that even Roundheads would have some respect for defenceless women,’ they answered. ‘They are supposed to be men of God.’

‘They have little respect for anything but their own righteousness,’ retorted Bersaba, and I explained her bitterness. ‘My sister’s home has been destroyed, her husband and his sister and their servants killed, and she escaped only by the greatest good fortune.’

Bersaba retorted, ‘That is only how any of us escape. I do not want to know who is winning but when this foolish war will be over.’

They left us and the days fell into the old pattern. We sewed, we walked, we played with the children; it seemed incredible that so close to us battles were waging and men were killing each other and dying for their cause.

October came. Jesson went into London to buy food and came back with the news that the Parliamentary forces were having successes which must prove vital. It was largely due to General Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell was instituting a new model army. He was training them, paying them well and above all exerting an iron discipline. He never let them forget that their consciences were concerned; he imbued them with the idea that they were fighting for an ideal, an escape from bondage, and that God was on their side. With such an ally they could not fail to succeed.

We talked a great deal after that of Richard and wondered where he was.

‘I would give a great deal to know,’ I said.

‘I would he could come home,’ answered Bersaba fervently.

But nothing happened. The weeks began to pass. The days were long and quiet, overshadowed always by menace.

My condition was beginning to show itself slightly and I rejoiced because I was half-way through my pregnancy. When I was stitching in the Castle Room I felt almost happy because it was so easy to forget the dangers all around and I could lull myself into the belief that I was an ordinary mother expecting her first child.

But it was hardly like that when I did not know from one day to another when the soldiers would come. This was a Royalist household, known as the home of one of the King’s most loyal generals, and it must go hard with us if Cromwell’s men ever came this way.

Everyone in the household was watching me more than ever. I would often find Mrs Cherry looking at me with an expression of greatest concern. Grace and Meg too. ‘Are you feeling all right, my lady?’

‘Yes, of course, don’t I look all right?’

‘Well, my lady, shouldn’t you rest a bit?’

I must escape those watchful eyes.

There was a strangeness about them all … even Bersaba. Sometimes she seemed cautious. She would not discuss the castle, and told me sharply that I must not think about it, Sometimes she wanted to talk about Richard and at others she would abruptly change the subject.

It was rather disquieting and more and more I sought the peace of the Castle Room.

The chapel began to exert a certain influence. I used to find myself wandering down to it. I liked to sit in the pew and think about all the Tolworthys who had worshipped there in happier times, and I wondered if Magdalen had come here often to pray for a safe delivery.

That was what I wanted to do now.

I went to the altar. The cloth had been made by several of the ladies of the household one hundred and fifty years ago, Richard had once told me. I touched the stitching reverently. It was so delicately worked and the colours were exquisite. One day, I thought, when my baby is older, I will make an altar cloth and I will find just such colours as these. That blue is so beautiful … blue for happiness … wasn’t that a saying? How neatly it was finished off. I wondered how they had done that … I had turned the cloth in my hands and as I did so I must have jerked it forward. There was a clatter as the chalice fell to the floor and in the next second I was hit by one of the vessels, the cloth came away in my hands, I was lying on the chapel floor, and at that moment I felt for the first time the movement of my child and I fainted.

Mrs Cherry was standing over me. Bersaba was there too. I noticed Mrs Cherry’s face was so pale that the network of red veins stood out on her cheeks. She was shaking.

Bersaba, kneeling beside me, was saying, ‘It’s all right. She’s better now.’ She was undoing the collar of my bodice. ‘All right, Angel. You fainted. It often happens at this stage.’ Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘Don’t move for a bit. Just stay here. You’ll feel all right in a moment. Then I’ll get you to your room. But it’s nothing. It happens.’

So I lay on the cold floor of the chapel and I remember feeling the life inside me, and I kept repeating Bersaba’s words: It often happens at this stage.

Bersaba said, ‘I should rest for an hour or so. It’s nothing. Women often faint the first time they feel the movement. Then you get used to it of course. You’ve probably got a lively child.’

It was pleasant lying there. She talked about how she had been with Arabella and how all these little things were a part of a woman’s life during pregnancy.

‘It’s fortunate for me that you have gone through it all before,’ I said.

‘And that I’m here to look after you.’

‘I hope you always will be,’ I answered.

‘Now you’ll have to look after me sometimes.’

I slept a little and she must have left me, for when I woke up it was to find Mrs Cherry coming into the room.

‘I just had to come in and assure myself you were all right, my lady.’

‘It was nothing, Mrs Cherry. Just a faint when the baby moved. My sister says it’s normal. It often happens the first time.’

‘It was the chapel what worried me,’ said Mrs Cherry.

‘I was looking at the altar cloth. It’s so beautifully worked and I must have pulled it off.’

‘And kneeling there at the altar, were you?’

‘Yes, I was.’

She frowned a little. ‘Well, my lady, I just wondered. We’re all anxious about you, you know.’

‘I do know it and I wish you wouldn’t be. Everything’s perfectly all right.’

‘Oh, I do hope so, my lady,’ she said vehemently.

And there I was … uneasy again.

I could not sleep. They say women have strange fancies when they are pregnant. I certainly had them that night. It began when I thought I heard stealthy footsteps creaking on the stairs. It’s nothing, I soothed myself. Just old boards and my fancy.

I remembered how often I had been afraid of the dark when I was a child and what a comfort it was to know that Bersaba was close. But there was something in the air that night, something that meant danger. But we lived in dangerous times.

Almost without thinking I rose from my bed and, putting on slippers and a robe, made my way to Bersaba’s room.

My heart leaped in fear, for she was not there. The bedclothes had been thrown back as though she had left hurriedly. Then I had heard footsteps on the stairs—Bersaba’s!

There was a full moon and the room was almost as light as day. I went to the window and looked out. I stood there for a few moments before I saw my sister. She was running across the grass as though her life depended on escape.

‘Bersaba!’ I cried out. ‘What …’ I stopped short, for I saw that she was pursued by something—a large, loping ungainly creature. It had a human shape and yet I was not sure that it was a man.

I started to shout: ‘The soldiers are here!’ as I ran from the room and sped down the stairs. My one thought was to save my sister.

‘Bersaba!’ I cried again. The creature stopped, halted by the sound of my voice. It turned uncertainly and came lumbering towards me. I could not see its face—perhaps that was fortunate—but I knew that I was in the presence of something not quite natural—something baleful, evil—and that I was in acute danger.

I heard Bersaba scream: ‘Run, Angel …’

Then almost immediately there was the sound of a gun’s being fired. The figure swayed and I saw its huge arms rise as it staggered and fell on to the grass.

Bersaba was beside me. She had her arms about me, holding me tightly.

‘You’re all right, Angel,’ she murmured soothingly. ‘It’s all right now. I thought I saw Richard down here … so I came … and it was that. He saw me and …’

Mr and Mrs Cherry were running out of the house, and as she came to the figure on the grass Mrs Cherry did a strange thing. She knelt beside it and laid her face on the fallen body.

It was like a nightmare: the coldness of the night and Bersaba and I standing there clinging together as though one feared she would lose the other; the body lying on the grass and Mrs Cherry rocking back and forth on her heels incoherently murmuring in obvious uncontrollable grief.

Grace and Meg came out with Jesson, and Grace knelt down and said: ‘He’s dead.’

Mrs Cherry wailed, ‘Cherry shot him. He shot our son …’

Cherry laid his hand on his wife’s shoulder and tried to comfort her.

‘We ought to get him into the house,’ said Jesson.

The sight of the blood sickened me. Bersaba put her arm about me. ‘You should go back to bed, Angelet,’ she said. I ignored her. I had to know what was happening.

They put him in the weapons room and as he lay there on the floor I caught a glimpse of his face. It was strange and terrifying. Thick and wiry hair grew low on the brow; hair covered the lower part of his face, but there was something evil about that face which had not been put there by death.

Grace took Mrs Cherry away and we were left with Cherry and Jesson in the hall. I said: ‘What does this mean? Who is this man? You shot him, Cherry?’

Cherry said: ‘Yes, I shot him. You heard Mrs Cherry. It’s true. He is our son.’

‘Where did he come from?’ asked Bersaba. ‘How is it that he has appeared here suddenly?’

‘He escaped, my lady. He escaped once before. It has been a great trial to us. He was in a madhouse … He has the strength of two men … and he was dangerous. I couldn’t have him in the house. He caused such damage before. There didn’t seem nothing else to do … I knew I’d have to … if ever he came back.’

Bersaba took control of the situation. She went to the kitchen and brought something from Mrs Cherry’s cupboard, poured it into a goblet and made Cherry drink it.

‘You must control yourself,’ she said. ‘What you did you believed to be for the best.’

‘’Twas a terrible trial to us … all these years … for we never knew when he might break out again.’

‘There’s nothing you can do now,’ said Bersaba. ‘He is dead. Tomorrow you must take him out of the house and bury him.’

Cherry nodded.

‘Jesson shall take you to bed.’

‘I did it to save you, my lady. I did it to save the house. There’s no knowing what he would have done. He goes mad, see. He would have burnt the place down. I had to do it. I had to. Mrs Cherry must see it. But he’s her son and …’

Bersaba turned to Jesson. ‘Take him to his room, Jesson,’ she said. ‘Stay with him and Mrs Cherry, I’ll look after my sister.’

She led me to my room and she stayed with me. We talked for a long time.

‘He did right,’ she said. ‘You could see that he was mad … even as he lay there on the grass. If he had got into the house he might have murdered us all. Cherry must have known how desperate he was.’

‘To shoot his own son …’ I began.

‘He is better dead.’

Though the children had slept peacefully through the disturbance, there was no sleep for any of the adults in the house that night. In the morning Cherry and Jesson took the body away and buried it on the edge of the paddock, and they put a stone these on which Cherry engraved the words ‘Joseph Cherry’ and the date.

He talked to us afterwards more calmly than he had on the previous night. Bersaba was wonderful, for she made him realize that in sacrificing his son he had saved us all, for the story Cherry had to tell was horrifying. His son had been born abnormal; during his childhood he had become violent. As a boy he had found a special delight in torturing and killing animals and later he had had an uncontrollable urge to do the same to human beings. He had had to be taken into a madhouse and chained. He had escaped once before and some instinct had brought him to his parents. So he had come to Far Flamstead. Then his presence had only been discovered when he had entered the house. He was stopped in time before he had set it on fire. Then his father had shot him through the leg. That was what he had aimed to do on this occasion, but the shot had entered his heart.

‘You are a brave man, Cherry,’ said Bersaba, ‘and I think everyone in this house should be grateful to you today!’

Of course the incident had changed the household. Before we had been on the alert for soldiers who might destroy our home and kill us. Now we had been brought face to face with an equally terrifying situation. Both Bersaba and I trembled at the thought of what might have happened if that madman had entered the room in which the sleeping children lay, and we couldn’t be grateful enough to Cherry.

Mrs Cherry had changed. Her grief possessed her; she made a wreath of leaves and laid it on her son’s grave. I was glad that she bore no resentment against her husband, for she seemed so lost and bewildered that she might well have done.

Her colour had changed; the network of veins was more visible. She was more silent than she had been. I thought how strange it was that people harboured secrets of which we were unaware. I couldn’t forget her round rosy face which seemed to match her name, and to discover that all the time she was nursing this bitter secret made me see her in a new light.

As the weeks passed we returned to the wartime pattern. We were alert as ever for approaching enemies, but we were all aware that the most ardent Parliamentary soldiers could not have been more terrifying than the madman who could so easily have entered the house while we slept.

It was November—a month of mists and bare trees, green berries on the ivy and spiders’ webs festooning the hedges.

My baby was due to be born in three months’ time, and I longed for February and the first jasmine and snowdrops. It seemed long in coming.

It was during this month that the terrible conviction came to me that someone was trying to kill me.

There were times when I laughed at my fancies, and I could not bring myself to talk of them … even to Bersaba. I kept telling myself: Women have strange fancies, don’t they, when they are in this condition? They are said to be irrational, crave strange things, imagine things are what they are not.

And here was this fancy within me, an eerie conviction that I was being watched and followed. When I went into the quieter places of the house—the Castle Room, the chapel on the spiral stairs with its steps which were so narrow on one side—I would be aware of danger. ‘Be careful of that staircase,’ said Bersaba. ‘It could be dangerous. If you tripped on that … it could be disastrous for the child.’

Once when it was dusk and I was coming down the staircase I had the feeling that someone was watching me from behind. I fancied I could almost hear the sound of breathing.

I stopped short and said: ‘Is anyone there?’ and I thought I heard a quick intake of breath and then the faint rustle of clothing. I hurried down, though taking care with every step, and went to my room to lie on the bed to recover. I felt my child move within me then and I laid my hands on it reassuringly. I was going to make sure that all was well with it.

Later I admonished myself. What was I thinking of? I believed I knew what had happened to me. The memory of that madman creeping up to the house had unnerved me. I couldn’t get it out of my mind—how could I, when Mrs Cherry looked so sad and poor Cherry behaved as though he carried a load of sin on his shoulders? My imagination kept presenting me with pictures of what might have happened. I could imagine myself waking up to find him in my room. I pictured his creeping into the children’s room and looking down on those innocent little faces.

I could hear Cherry’s voice: ‘He took a pleasure in torturing and killing animals … and later he wanted to do the same to human beings.’

He is dead, I reminded myself.

But such an incident was bound to have its affect on anyone as nervous as I had become, and the feeling of being watched persisted. I gave up going to the Castle Room. It was a climb up the stairs and I was getting unwieldy, I told myself. But it was not really that. The place seemed so isolated and I was fearful of being alone.

Then one night I was sure.

Bersaba had brought in my milk. I dozed and then fell into a disturbed sleep. I dreamed that a figure came into my room, stopped by my bed, slipped something into my milk and then went swiftly and quietly from the room.

I awoke with a start and my hair really did stand up on my head, for as I opened my eyes I saw the door closing.

I called out sharply: ‘Who’s that?’

The door shut. I distinctly heard it. I got out of bed, went to the door and opened it, but there was no one in the corridor.

I returned to my bed and looked at the milk. I could see that something had been put into it because it had not yet completely dissolved.

I sat on the edge of my bed and thought: Someone is trying to harm me. It is not my imagination.

I lay on my bed, fighting the impulse to go in to Bersaba.

I had told her how uneasy I felt and she had brushed that aside. ‘It’s your condition,’ she had said. ‘And you were always inclined to be nervous.’

She would say that I had dreamed it.

I picked up the milk and smelt it. There was no odour.

For some time I looked at it and then threw it out of the window.

I had made up my mind that the next time someone came into my room I was going to be awake and speak to whoever came to tamper with my milk and ask why they wanted to harm me and my child.

It seemed to me that I had lost contact with Bersaba. She was preoccupied. Sometimes she talked about Richard; she wanted to know about our relationship and that was something I found difficult to discuss with her. There were other times when she did not want to speak of him.

We were all of us nervous. ‘I reckon this war’s doing something to us all,’ said Meg. ‘You never know when soldiers are going to come running over the grass.’ Then she clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, it won’t happen, my lady. It couldn’t here. They wouldn’t dare … not in the General’s house.’

I knew that she had been warned not to alarm me.

I wasn’t sleeping very well. I never drank the milk which was put by my bed, but I did not stop it. I wanted to catch the one whom I suspected of putting something in it. I thought with alarm that if there was no milk they might try some other method. Of course I was wasting milk. We had two cows which Cherry milked each day, so there was plenty of fresh milk at that time, but we did not know when the countryside was going to be laid waste and what we should do for food then.

Then I moved into a phase when I told myself that nothing of this was happening. I had not seen the door close. I had dreamed the whole thing. If I told anyone, they would smile and soothingly say I must take care.

Then I began to think about the house and the strangeness of things here, and how different people were from what one had believed them to be. I thought particularly of Mrs Cherry who had seemed so rotund and contented when all the time she had had a son who was a dangerous lunatic, who had broken free from his madhouse and come to Far Flamstead and tried to burn down the place. I had discovered that that had happened more than fifteen years ago, and all that time the Cherrys had been watchful lest he should escape again and return.

I began to wonder about the door in the kitchen and whether it was really just an ordinary cupboard in there. It had somehow not looked like one. I was surprised at Bersaba’s attitude. She had always been so adventurous, but when once more I tentatively mentioned the cupboard, she changed the subject and showed quite clearly that she didn’t want to talk about it.

I began to be obsessed by the thought of the cupboard in the kitchen and asked myself why there were always coats hung over the door as though to hide it. It became clear to me that I would go on thinking of it until I had seen inside. I thought too about the Cherry’s son and what would have happened if he had come into the house. It would have been a good idea to put the children in that cupboard. I almost mentioned this to Bersaba, but she had been so impatient when I talked of it that I had stopped speaking of it.

Why shouldn’t I explore my own kitchen! She had said that to me. Well, why shouldn’t I?

It was late afternoon. I had come in for a short walk round the grounds, for I did not go far now, and in any case the weather was getting cold, for we had come into December and snow was threatened. As I came through the hall I noticed how quiet the house was, and as I passed the kitchen I looked in.

There was no one there.

The impulse came suddenly. I went in and, crossing to the cupboard, pushed aside the garments which hung there. The heavy key was in the door and I opened it. It looked just as it had that night when Bersaba and I had explored. I pushed aside the coats. I needed all my strength to draw back the heavy bolt. A rush of cold air caught me and I stepped into what was certainly more than an inner cupboard. It was dark and I could see nothing, so I went back into the kitchen and took a candle. I lighted this and went through the cupboard.

It was a carefully-made corridor—with an arched ceiling some seven feet high—and the walls were of stone. I went through it for what seemed quite a long way and finally I came to another door. This also was locked by a heavy bolt.

I pulled it and the door swung open. I was in a courtyard and I understood immediately where I was, for towering above me was the castle.

I was tremendously excited and afraid. I was not to approach the castle, Richard had said. It was unsafe.

I knew I should not stay, yet I seemed to be fascinated, unable to move. And as I stood there I heard someone shout at me.

‘Who’s that?’

A man came out of the castle. He was tall with very broad shoulders and a pale face, on which was a birthmark so vivid that it was the first thing I noticed about him. Something seemed to click in my mind. I had seen him before. He was Strawberry John.

‘Get back,’ he shouted.

‘W … why?’ I stammered.

Then I heard strange sounds and something else lumbered into the courtyard. It was a man yet somehow different from any other man; its arms hung to its knees and it walked with a shuffle … coming towards me. It was a human yet not human. My limbs were stiff with terror and would not move. I thought at once of the man I had seen on the lawn.

Strawberry John had leaped on the creature. He had thrown his arms about him and was holding him firmly.

‘It’s all right, boy,’ he said in a strangely gentle voice. ‘We’re all right. It’s nothing, boy, nothing at all.’

The creature was smiling at Strawberry John, who had taken one of its hands. It no longer looked menacing.

Strawberry John waved his arms at me, implying I was to disappear the way I had come, and I stumbled back into the corridor.

With fumbling fingers I drew the bolt. I had dropped my candle in the courtyard and was now in darkness, but I knew where I must go, so I felt my way along those stone walls until I stumbled into the cupboard.

When I came out the first person I saw was Mrs Cherry. She was standing there, her face ashen.

‘You’ve been in the tunnel. You’ve been to the castle,’ she cried.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen who is there and I want to know what it means.’

‘It’s for the General to tell you,’ she said; and she sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. She remained thus for a few seconds and then she stood up and came to me.

‘In your condition,’ she said, ‘this could have caused harm.’

I said: ‘Who is that in there? Who is that … boy … man …? Who is he?’

‘It’s not for me to say,’ she stammered.

‘But you know, Mrs Cherry.’

‘Oh, my lady. It’s our secret … it’s what we have to keep.’ Her eyes lit up suddenly as she said: ‘I can’t keep it no longer. How can I when you’ve seen? We’ve looked after him all these years … all of us here, and specially Cherry and me and Strawberry John. It’s his son, my lady—the General’s son.’

‘No,’ I cried. ‘Magdalen … bore that!’

‘There,’ said Mrs Cherry. ‘I’ve told. No one can blame me. I could do no other … not after you’d seen. Here, you’re all shook up. Let me get you to your room. I’ll call your sister.’

Yes, I must talk to Bersaba. I had to share this terrible secret with someone. I would never forget the sight of that vapid face.

She led me to my room. ‘You mustn’t be frightened, my lady,’ she said. ‘It would be bad for the child. He’s quiet most of the time. Just has violent fits now and then. He’s not a bad boy. Plays some games. Strawberry John’s good with him. He loves him, Strawberry John does. He thinks he’ll make something of him one day.’

‘Bring my sister to me,’ I said. And she went away.

Half an hour passed and Bersaba did not come. Then there was a knock on my door. It was Mrs Cherry again. She had a goblet in her hand.

‘I’m so worried about you, my lady. You shouldn’t have gone there. I’ve brought you this. It’ll soothe you. A little vervain because you trembled so, and pimpernel to cheer you, and my dear herb-twopence which is good for everything. Drink it up.’

‘I couldn’t drink anything, Mrs Cherry. Leave it there.’ She set it down and said, ‘I couldn’t find Mistress Longridge. She’s out in the gardens with the children. She had said something about gathering holly and ivy for Christmas. Oh, my lady, ’tis terrible to see you so put out.’

‘And Strawberry John has always looked after that … child?’

‘He’s a strange man. Some say he’s a bit short and some say he has too much. He has a way with animals and the sick. He’s always looked after the boy and good to him he’s been. The boy would die for him and he for the boy. ’Tas been a great sadness for the General. We knew soon after he was born. And then the castle seemed the place and he was put there, for the General couldn’t bear to look at him. He’d wanted a child … what man doesn’t? … and it was only natural that he should get to wondering what was wrong with him that he should have such as that.’

‘So he shut him away and wouldn’t see him.’

‘He knew he were safe with Strawberry John.’

‘And that night when the noise in the kitchen awakened us?’

‘That was the boy. The door had been left open and he got through. He was only playful like. He was throwing the pots and pans about. It was like a game to him. He’s gentle most times, Strawberry John says. Strawberry John tells me that one day he could be better. He’s getting better … he doesn’t have the violent turns like he did. He’ll always be different from others … but one day he might be able to live in a nice house like the son of a gentleman.’

She paused and then her brow wrinkled. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’ she said. ‘There was that night when he broke in … Didn’t he tell you then?’

‘He’s never told me that he had a son living.’

‘The General took it bad. We reckoned that he wouldn’t marry again because he was afraid of himself … afraid there might be some taint in him like. He used to shut himself in the library and go through all that had happened to his family … We all knew because Jesson saw the papers when he put them away. Then he brought you here … and it seemed as if he might have another son. But when you had that miscarriage …’ She stopped.

‘That was because I had a fright in the Castle Room. You all said it was a nightmare. Of course I did really see the lights and the face.’

‘It was the General’s order, my lady. We dursen’t go against that.’ She came close to me and laid her hand on my shoulder. ‘I hope this hasn’t upset you, my lady. I hope it’s not going to bring on something …’

‘I feel all right …’

‘And now you’ve seen …You don’t think … you don’t want …’

‘What do you mean, Mrs Cherry?’

‘I was wondering whether you’d feel you wanted to get rid of it.’

I stared at her in horror.

‘Oh, forgive me, my lady. I shouldn’t have said that. But if you was to have another like that …’

‘Stop, Mrs Cherry. Stop.’

‘Yes, my lady. Drink this. It’ll soothe you. I tell you, it’ll make you sleep and when you’ve slept you’ll begin to see what all this means. You’ll begin to make plans and …’

‘I don’t want to sleep. I want to think about this.’

‘Yes, you want to think. There are ways … If you was to want to … If you was to feel that you couldn’t go on with this …’

‘Mrs Cherry, please, I don’t want to hear any more. Please go now.’

‘Drink up this posset, my lady. I’d like to see you drink that before I go.’

‘No, later. Not now. I don’t want to sleep. I want to think and think …’

She went out and I lay on my bed, staring wild-eyed at the ceiling.

Bersaba came in. I was so relieved to see her.

‘What on earth has happened?’ she cried.

I told her that I had been through the tunnel into the castle and that I had seen Richard’s son. ‘He’s an idiot,’ I said. ‘That’s the secret of the castle. That’s why we are not to go there.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘You knew?’

‘Yes, I knew.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Richard told me.’

‘He told you, but not me!’

‘He was afraid that it would upset you, that you would be worried about having children.’

‘He was right. I am …’

‘You must not think of it,’ she said. ‘It does not mean that because one was born like that … others will be.’

‘Why should a child be born like that?’

‘Something goes wrong …’

‘But it could be something in the parents.’

‘Why should it necessarily be in Richard? It might have been some fault in his wife.’

‘Yet he kept it a secret. How could he have done that to his own son!’

‘How can you judge what other people should do? How could he have that boy in this house? He did the next best thing. He put him in the castle, built the wall and gave him a good guardian. What else could he do?’

‘You defend him.’

‘I’m trying to see his point of view. The boy has been cared for all these years.’

‘It must be fifteen years …’ I said.

‘What made you go through that cupboard door?’

‘Because I was curious.’

‘So that was why you kept talking about it.’

‘You wouldn’t go with me. I know now why. You knew what was there.’

‘I wish you hadn’t found out now … at this stage.’

‘What worries me, Bersaba, is this … what if my child should be …’

‘Put such thoughts out of your mind. It’s folly to think like that.’

‘How can I put thoughts out of my mind when they persist in being there? How would you feel if you were in my place? I keep thinking of that … boy. His face haunts me. I’m terrified, Bersaba. If it happened once …’

‘It was so foolish of you to go exploring now. Why didn’t you tell me what you were going to do?’

‘The Cherrys have kept the secret. Just think of it. Everyone in this house knew except me. I was the only one in the dark.’

‘It was important that you should be in the dark.’

‘I … Richard’s wife … closer to him than any … and not to be told!’

‘Be reasonable. You were going to bear his child. It was sensible not to tell you. Look at you now … Look at the effect it has had on you. Now you are going to fret and fume …’

‘Mrs Cherry suggested … that it could be stopped …’

‘What!’

‘She says that even now …’

‘You are mad. Mrs Cherry is mad. I shall speak to her. How dare she say such a thing!’

‘I am mistress of this house, Bersaba, though sometimes I think you fancy that you are.’

She turned and went out of the room.

I could not sleep. How long the night seemed. I dared not sleep; if I did I knew my dreams would be terrible. All the fears of the last months had been nothing compared with those which beset me now. I pictured my child being born. I could hear Richard’s saying: ‘He … or she … must go to the castle.’

There was no hot milk by my bed on this night, but Mrs Cherry’s posset was still there, untouched.

I almost decided to drink it, but I knew it would send me to sleep and I did not want to sleep because of those nightmares I feared.

My door was being opened very slowly. I felt my heart begin to pound. Was this the one I was waiting for, the one I had promised myself I would try to catch?

Bersaba came and stood by my bed.

‘You are awake, Angelet,’ she said.

‘How can I sleep with so much to think of?’

‘You are still worrying about the child?’

‘Would you not in my place?’

‘You have it in your head that Richard cannot father a normal healthy child.’

‘If you had seen that … creature. He reminded me of the man on the grass.’

‘Angelet, I have been thinking all day whether I should tell you. It may be a shock to you but I have come to the conclusion that it will be less harmful for you to know than fear for the child. What is important to you now … more important than anything … is the child. Is that not so, Angel?’

‘Of course.’

‘Richard can have a healthy child. He has.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘Arabella is his daughter.’

I lay still not comprehending. Then I said slowly: ‘Arabella. Your Arabella. She is Richard’s daughter!’

‘Yes,’ said Bersaba defiantly.

‘You and he …’

‘Yes, he and I. Did you ever see a more perfect child? I never did. Nor did anyone.’

‘Oh, Bersaba,’ I cried, ‘you and Richard.’

‘You didn’t love him,’ she accused. ‘Not really. You were frightened of him.’

‘And you loved him, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And that was why you married Luke, so that no one would know you were going to have Richard’s child. And Luke, what did he think?’

‘He knew and helped me.’

‘You think the world belongs to you, Bersaba. You always did. Other people didn’t matter very much, did they?’

‘You matter to me now, sister. You are going to be well and your child will be strong and healthy.’

‘And when Richard comes home,’ I said, ‘what then?’

‘You will have a healthy child to show him.’

‘You have already shown him yours.’

‘That is over, Angelet. When your child is born and Richard comes back, I am going home to Trystan Priory.’

‘Richard won’t let you go. He loves you, doesn’t he?’

‘He is a man who will love his wife and his children. Good night.’

She stooped over me and kissed me.

I lay there thinking of them. Lovers in this house … and I was here. Why did I not know? Then I remembered. She had insisted on my taking the soothing draught. ‘This will make you sleep.’ I pictured her, the sly smile about her mouth. So they put me to sleep while she went to him.

How could she? I remembered my fear of the great four-poster bed and how I could never reconcile myself to that relationship; and she had revelled in it. She was all that I was not. I remembered how Bastian’s eyes had followed her and how angry she had been when Carlotta took him from her. Then Bastian had wanted to marry her, she had told me, and she would have none of him. And then she came and took Richard and then Luke wanted her so much that he would take another man’s child for her sake.

Oh, Bersaba, my twin sister! What did I know of her? She had become a stranger to me.

A terrible thought came into my mind. She loved Richard; she loved him so much that she could forget that I, who had believed myself to be close and dear to her, was his wife.

Memories stirred. I was back in my room in Pondersby Hall and Ana was standing beside me. What had she said? It was something which had seemed strange at the time. ‘It would be a mistake to think she had all the good points … if the occasion should arise …’

What should Ana have known of Bersaba? But the fact was that she warned me to beware of my sister.

I had imagined someone had put poison into my milk. Who had given me the milk? Who had given me the sleeping draught so that I should not be disturbed while she went to my husband?

I had never been so frightened or so horrified in my life.

Could it really be that my sister wanted my husband so much that she was trying to kill me?