Saraband for Two Sisters (20 page)

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

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

At dinner Carlotta told Sir Gervaise of my adventure.

He was most concerned.

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

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

‘You could have lost so much more.’

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, do try to think.’

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

‘So he was married.’

‘I believe so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yet she warned her.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I should greatly enjoy it.’

‘Come then. We’ll slip away.’

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

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

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

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

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

I shivered and he asked if I were cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Tell me what you wish to know.’

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

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

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

‘A soldier is always prepared for war.’

‘And you are going abroad for a while?’

‘Not until the need arises.’

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

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

‘As Gervaise has.’

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

‘And is yours an ancient manor?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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