Saraband for Two Sisters (31 page)

That was all I wanted to do, and very soon I did know what was happening to me. I was losing my baby.

Ella Longridge put me to bed and sent over to Far Flamstead for Grace, who came and very soon confirmed my fears.

‘You’re safe enough, mistress,’ said Grace. ‘Why, ’twas nothing to speak of. ’Tis just the sorrow of losing it. But at this stage you soon recover and you’ll have more. ’Tis a warning to us, though, that we’ll have to take very special care of you. Must have had a shock like.’

She had brought some of her herb medicines with her, and she said that I shouldn’t move for the rest of that day but I’d be well enough to come home tomorrow, she was sure, although she’d want to see me first.

Ella said that Grace must stay the night and accompany me back the next day. She would feel happier with Grace in the farmhouse.

So there I lay in this plain bedroom with its bare boards and sombre colours, and I thought of what losing my baby would mean. My dreams had evaporated. I had lost the child just as I was becoming sure of its existence. I was glad I had not told my mother and sister; I was sorry that I had told Richard. I would have to write to him now and tell him that I had lost the child.

Ella came and sat by my bed; she brought her sewing with her, not embroidery, which I supposed she would consider frivolous, but the plain material she was stitching into garments for herself and her brother.

She told me how sorry she was that this had happened, and although she was a spinster who had no intention of marrying, she could well understand my feelings.

‘I wonder what went wrong?’ she said.

I told her what had happened the previous night.

‘That explains it,’ she said. ‘The shock must have brought on this miscarriage.’

‘I felt nothing at the time.’

‘I believe it happens like that sometimes. I wonder who was there in the Folly?’

‘You have heard of Strawberry John, have you, Mistress Longridge?’

‘I have. He is a strange-looking man. Very strong, I believe. His father was a very strong man indeed and John inherited that strength. He has this mark on his face and it is easy to identify him because of it. One doesn’t hear of him often. I don’t know where he lives …nobody seems to know.’

‘Mrs Cherry, our housekeeper, suggested that he found some way into the castle.’

‘That seems a very likely explanation. What a pity that you happened to be disturbed by it.’

‘I don’t know what my husband will say when he comes back. He is insistent that no one goes near the castle as it is unsafe.’

‘I dare say he will demolish it.’

‘I don’t know. He feels it would not be right, as his ancestor set such store by it.’

It was comforting talking to Ella and later in the day her brother came in, but as she insisted on my remaining in bed and the Longridges would not think it fitting for me to receive a gentleman in my bedchamber, I did not see him.

I slept peacefully that night and in the morning felt well enough to get up.

Grace pronounced me fit to travel, but Luke Longridge would not hear of my riding, and he took Grace and me back to Far Flamstead in one of the farm carts which was drawn by two horses. He said he would send a man over with my horse and Grace’s later that day.

Mrs Cherry seized on me, and murmuring something about my night’s adventure in the Castle Room which had brought this on, insisted that I go to bed.

I felt a little weak and very depressed, so I allowed her to take me there.

I was indeed sad. I did not realize until now how much I had counted on having my baby. I recalled now the nights in the big bed which had filled me with apprehension and which I had been inclined to forget while Richard was away. In my heart I had said it was worthwhile because I was going to have a baby. But now there was no baby.

These thoughts I could not explain to anybody, and when Grace and Meg kept telling me that I should soon have another, I could not help dwelling rather morbidly on the necessary preliminaries.

I wondered whether I was unusual, but I didn’t think so. I had heard it said by married ladies, whispering together, that it was a woman’s duty to submit to her husband’s needs, however uncomfortable and distasteful this might be; and I knew now what they meant.

I was certainly depressed, and I thought more and more of Trystan Priory, and it occurred to me that what I wanted more than anything now was to see my sister.

I told myself I could talk to her. There was a good deal she would not understand, of course. How could she, an unmarried girl and a virgin? But still I should find some comfort in talking.

Then Richard returned home.

He was solicitous and very concerned because of what had happened.

He seemed taller and more remote than I had been imagining him, and was a little embarrassed with me, not knowing how to tell me of his affection.

For one thing I was grateful. He said I must be strong again before we thought of having another child, because what had happened, although so early in my pregnancy and therefore not dangerous to me, might well have weakened me. And we must take no risks.

During that first week of his return I slept in the Blue Room, so called because of its furnishings, which was on the same landing as our own bedchamber.

‘You will find it more restful to sleep alone,’ was his comment. ‘Just at first,’ he added.

How grateful I was.

I hoped that he did not sense my relief, but I feared I could not hide it.

Of course I told him of the night before my miscarriage, how I had seen the lights and thought I had glimpsed Strawberry John on the battlements. I saw his face whiten and I could not understand the expression in his eyes. His mouth was tight, angry, I thought it.

‘Could you have imagined it?’ he asked, almost pleadingly, I thought.

‘No,’ I said vehemently. ‘I was fully awake and in possession of my senses. I saw the light, heard something, and there was no doubt that it was a face up there.’

‘And you recognized that face?’

‘Yes—well, I’m not absolutely sure. The light wasn’t good. But I had seen this Strawberry John in the woods near the castle.’

‘I wonder if it is possible,’ he said. ‘I shall discover.’

I said: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to demolish the castle?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t do that.’

‘But if it is dangerous and people can get in?’

‘People cannot get in. I don’t understand this. It was unfortunate, but I shall look into the matter. You should never have left your bed and gone up to investigate. It was foolish.’

‘It seemed natural. After all, I wanted to know what was going on in my home.’

‘I will see this Strawberry John at the first opportunity, and if by chance you saw him, I must ask you not to be afraid if by some chance you should do so again. If you do, come to me at once. I shall take the necessary steps. I do not wish you to attempt to investigate without telling me. Please remember that, Angelet.’

It was a command, spoken in a stern voice. So he must talk to his soldiers, I thought.

‘It is a painful subject,’ he went on. ‘Your wanderings in the night in all probability have lost the child. You must take care in future. Perhaps it would be better if you came to Whitehall and stayed in London for a while.’

I was silent. A terrible depression had come over me and I could not shake it off.

Then began the evenings when he brought out the soldiers and made a battlefield. He did not always involve me in this; and sometimes he would go to the library and become deeply immersed in some of the books there. We had the occasional game of chess, but I was afraid my game had not improved and I knew that there was little excitement for him in our battles over the board.

I knew too that soon he would be back with me in the red-curtained bed.

One day he said to me: ‘You are not really happy, Angelet. Tell me, what would make you so?’

I answered promptly: ‘Perhaps if I could see my sister. We have been together all our lives until I came to London. I miss her very much.’

‘Why should she not come to visit us?’

‘Do you think I might ask her?’

‘By all means do so.’

So that day I wrote to Bersaba.

‘Do come, Bersaba. It seems so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to talk to you about. I miss you and Mother terribly, but if you could come it would be a wonderful help to me. Bersaba, I need you here. You are stronger now. Are you strong enough for the journey? I do hope so and I do believe you will want to come when I tell you how much I need you.’

I read the letter through when I had written it. It sounded like a cry for help.

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.’