Saraband for Two Sisters (33 page)

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.

M
Y 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.’