During Sara’s early childhood, Sebastian passed unsuccessfully from one tutoring job to another, occasionally writing for magazines, until he was shunned completely by editors for trying to publish Parliamentary Reform pamphlets. They lived a hand-to-mouth existence, moving about from one lodging to another; for brief periods they enjoyed modest comfort with outbursts of real extravagance ‒ at other times they hadn’t the price of a meal. This state of affairs seemed natural to Sara; she had never known any other. She learned where she could buy food cheapest, and how to haggle over a penny with the shopkeepers. She was as adept as Sebastian himself in avoiding the creditors, and when they couldn’t be avoided she faced them out boldly. They lived a wandering life, which always had the taste of adventure about it, so long as each experience could be shared by them both. They adored each other, and were only happy when they could be together. Sebastian treated her in every respect as if she were already a woman ‒ she learned to read almost as soon as she could talk, and unconsciously imbibed scraps of learning from him. She and Sebastian were known in every coffee-house and tavern along Fleet Street and the Strand.
When she was eleven she took a position with one of the fashionable dressmaking establishments. Sebastian was helpless to prevent her ‒ by this time he was accustomed to accepting her decisions about everything they did. He talked vaguely of having ‘other ideas’ about what she should do; she took no notice of his troubled murmurs and flung herself into the business of absorbing this new phase of her experience. One of her duties was to carry messages and packages to the great houses of the city. She found herself more often employed this way because she was quick-witted, and could read and write. Sometimes she was permitted to stand by and watch a fitting, listening eagerly to the gossip which drifted through the scented rooms, the talk of balls, parties and scandals; talk of the dull court of George III. In this way she caught a glimpse of the world beyond her own; her envious fingers touched the velvet hangings and the soft carpets; long mirrors threw back the first full-length reflection of herself she had ever seen. She saw the hustle of preparations for receptions and dinners; occasionally she even waited with the crowd outside to see the guests arrive.
She became a general favourite with the ladies who patronized her mistress; she was pretty and, in their presence, made herself docile and amiable. They petted her, and would have spoiled her if she were not too shrewd to be spoiled. Even though she was still a child, they gave her discarded fineries ‒ scarves and scraps of lace. These she either sold or put away, having more sense than to appear to imitate her superiors by wearing them. They encouraged her to chatter to them in her precocious French, which she had learned from Sebastian; altogether she had much more notice taken of her than a dressmaker’s apprentice had any right to. She knew her mistress didn’t approve the position into which she had manoeuvred herself. But for the moment it happened to be the whim of some of the great ladies to make a fuss over her ‒ and so she was kept on, not without much head-shaking.
It lasted for a year. At the end of that time Sebastian escaped the debtor’s prison by taking the first coach he could find out of London with Sara beside him. It happened to take them to Rye. By the time they had found lodgings there, Sara had set the story going that they had made the move in search of better health for her father. He fell into an easier and more comfortable life in Rye; tutoring jobs came readily enough when he gave the names of his grandfather and the Tory politician as recommendation.
The change affected Sara strongly; she settled gratefully to the quieter tempo of life, aware that she was free of the ceaseless bustle of the capital. She became outspoken in her determination that Sebastian should alter his habits, that he should not again uproot them both. Quite suddenly, respectability seemed to her a very desirable state. She made up her mind that Sebastian, from then on, must be respectable.
‘So you want me to reform, my love?’ he said, playing with her hair, as it lay over her shoulders. ‘Well ‒ we’ll see! We’ll see!’
He made a small effort, and succeeded well enough to give Sara some hope. They gave up the lodgings and took a tiny house; living there alone she managed to keep his drinking hidden. A kind of pact existed between them to excuse his weakness, and when it overcame him, to find a way of covering it up. She invented a story of a rare, recurring fever which periodically incapacitated him. She told her story with great conviction, and it was believed; she had the satisfaction of seeing Sebastian sought after because of his undoubted merits as a tutor.
A year after their arrival in Rye, Sebastian was engaged by the Reverend Thomas Barwell, holder of the living at Bramfield, on Walland Marsh, by Romney. He became tutor to the vicar’s two sons, Richard and William; each day he walked the two miles to Bramfield and back again, with Sara by his side. He had accepted the post only on the condition that she was to go with him, and that for half the day she should share the lessons with the boys. The rest of the time she would spend assisting Mrs. Barwell in light household duties. It seemed a workable arrangement ‒ the only one whereby Sebastian would have been induced to accept the post, for he would not have left Sara alone through the whole day. Apart from that he wanted her grounded in the classics and mathematics ‒ knowledge, most people told him, quite useless to a woman. But he had his own opinion on the matter, holding to his argument that an education was his only possession to leave with her. Mr. Barwell was aware immediately of Sebastian’s determination, and he was easily persuaded to give in, anxious, from the first meeting, to have his services for his sons ‒ the West Country scholar had an excellent reputation in Rye for the job he undertook. Besides, it was considerably cheaper than having some young man to live in.
So each day the spidery black figure walked with his daughter along the dyke roads, twisting and winding by the tide of the watercourses across the flatness of the Marsh. Sara loved the windy desolation, its greenness dotted by fat Kent sheep. In the winter the winds tore in from the sea ‒ and when the rain came with it, Sebastian would put his arm around her, drawing her into the shelter of his body. Little deserted chapels were sprinkled over the country in lonely fashion, empty and ruined since the days of the Canterbury monks. By night the marsh-land was a weird, unwelcoming place, avoided, whenever possible, by those in the villages and outlying farms. There was no interference, either, with the smugglers who slipped in from the sea with the darkness, their oars muffled, creeping silently up the dykes. There were inns and farms spaced about the Three Marshes with unsavoury reputations, where honest men would whip up their horses sharply until they were far behind. So Sebastian and Sara left Bramfield with the last light of the short winter afternoons, hurrying back along the road, thankfully crossing the bridge where the Rother curved under Rye Hill. It was always with a sense of relief, of a danger passed, that they climbed the cobbled streets of the town.
Life at Bramfield was pleasant enough. Sara was two years younger than Richard, and a year older than his brother. Her life in London had never let her know the meaning of shyness, and the three worked together peacefully. But outside the schoolroom the atmosphere was less easy. The vicar’s wife was disapproving of the situation which brought Sara into her household, and she discouraged the girl’s contact with her sons. Sara and her father ate their midday dinner apart from the family, making light of Mrs. Barwell’s coldness, and the austerity of the meals she served. They were excluded also when callers came to the house, and the two boys were summoned to the drawing-room. Sometimes they witnessed the arrival and departure, in his heavy carriage, of Sir Geoffrey Watson, who held the presentation to the living at Bramfield. And when he was accompanied by his daughter, Alison, a dark, sweet-faced child, Sara would gaze at her from the schoolroom window, mildly envious of the richness of her gowns, of the fur muffs which protected her hands.
Then, sometimes, in the long twilights of the spring and summer, Richard would walk part of the way with them to Rye ‒ these were hours when they enjoyed an intimacy not possible at Br
amfield. The Marsh was green, the reeds in the dykes bending gracefully before the soft wind. Sebastian taught them the names of the Marsh birds; in spring they sought out the nests together. Sometimes they went as far as the shore itself. The shingle made hard walking, especially if the wind were against them. Pointing out across the Channel, Sebastian filled them with tales of adventure and romance in the coastal towns of Normandy and Brittany. At times like these he seemed no older than Richard himself, his laughter as young and as constant as Richard’s own. When a playful mood attacked him, Sebastian would pull at the long braids of Sara’s hair, loosening it, to let it fly freely. The wind caught it, whipping it madly across her face, and stinging her eyes. They laughed at this mad confusion of her hair, but there was something secret, something less open than laughter in Richard’s eyes. She was gloriously happy in the company of the only two creatures she loved. And she sensed, without the need for speech between them, that Richard returned her love.
It was on Sara’s sixteenth birthday, an evening of late summer just before the turn of the season, that Sebastian gave Richard his signet ring. They sat together, the three of them, on the shingle, listening to the screaming cries of the gulls wheeling and dipping above them. Sebastian was silent for a time, twisting the ring, a gold one, on his finger. On an impulse he turned to Richard.
‘Here, Richard,’ he said, ‘give me your hand.’
As he spoke he stretched out and took Richard’s left hand, placing the ring on the little finger.
‘Sir …?’
Sebastian waved aside the attempted protest. ‘It belongs rightfully, of course, to Sara.’ He gave his daughter a faint, rather wistful smile. ‘But it’s a man’s ring, for all that. For her it could only have a sentimental value. I’ve always meant to give it myself ‒ not have it taken from my finger when I’m dead.’
He hunched his shoulders under the sombre black coat, staring out to sea.
‘When you leave Bramfield to go into the Army, Richard,’ he said after a few moment, ‘things will not be the same. We will still have our friendship, of course ‒ the three of us ‒ but things will not be the same. I want you to keep the ring, to remind you of us three as we are now.’
Sara was thankful that Richard had grace and sense enough to protest no longer against the gift.
He sat gazing at the unfamiliar sight of Sebastian’s ring upon his finger. Then he looked up, his eyes moving slowly from Sebastian to Sara. ‘As long as I live it will remind me of these evenings ‒ of both of you.’ He looked down at the ring again, and then said to Sara: ‘Since it should have been yours, may I have your permission to wear it?’
She was aware of a tone he had never before used to her ‒ he spoke to her as if she were a woman, and no longer a classroom companion. Unaccountably, she lowered her eyes rather than look at him. Her father’s shrewd gaze upon them both made her uncomfortable.
‘I should be glad for you to wear it,’ she answered.
Then she sprang quickly to her feet. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said, addressing Sebastian. ‘We should go.’ She didn’t know why she added this ‒ there was no reason to hasten the return.
They were slow, though, in parting ‒ Richard to turn back to Bramfield, Sara and Sebastian to start the walk to Rye. Glancing behind, she had a last sight of Richard as he rapidly paced the winding dyke road.
It may have been some inexplicable premonition which caused Sebastian to present the ring to Richard at that time, for it was the last evening they were to spend together on the shore. Two nights later, when he had managed for once to escape Sara’s vigilance, Sebastian was involved ‒ perhaps blamelessly ‒ in a brawl in a tavern frequented by the sailors who made their way in from the coast. They found him next morning lying in a side alley, dying from a terrifying head wound.
He died later in the day, and as the news filtered through the town, the phantasy-world Sara had built up crashed about her in ruins. People came with small bills and debts, tales of Sebastian’s petty borrowing and lies. The evidence of his unstable life was revealed, and the stories, drifting from one mouth to another, lost nothing in the telling. From a few of those who knew them both she received pity and condolence, but from the more outraged she received contempt as the daughter of a man little better than a common thief. There was irritation also, among the townspeople, that she herself could not be branded with him.
He was given a pauper’s funeral, and Sara had not even the address of the West Country rectory to inform his father of his death. Pride and loyalty to him kept her from making enquiries about the family; she let Rye and the Barwells, and anyone else concerned, keep their belief that the family and background he boasted were simply a further fabrication of lies. She herself denied any knowledge of them.
The day after Sebastian’s funeral, she took stock of the situation. There was no money ‒ the proceeds of the few possessions they had owned would have to go to meet the debts. She doubted that she could even keep back for herself enough money to pay the coach fare to London. And once in London ‒ what then? Back to a dressmaker’s workroom, or slaving under a cook in someone’s kitchen? She remembered the world she had known before Rye ‒ the grim hopelessness of trying to achieve anything without money, friends or influence.
The memory frightened her enough to send her boldly to the one man she knew who might help her.
She put on her most becoming gown ‒ one that Sebastian had bought her in a moment of extravagance, and probably hadn’t paid for ‒ noticing regretfully that her shabby cloak hid most of it. It was a three-mile walk to the gate-house of Sir Geoffrey Watson’s estate, and another mile beyond that to the house, but she covered the distance without being aware of it as she rehearsed what she would say to him. On her arrival she was kept waiting for an hour in the hall, and then shown into the room where the business of the estate was carried on.
Although the day was still warm the stout baronet sat before a blazing fire, a litter of papers about him. He stared at her hard for a moment, and then waved her to a low seat facing him.
‘Sit down, miss! Sit down!’
She did as he told her, feeling her cheeks already scorched by the fire.
Sir Geoffrey arranged his hands expansively across his stomach. Sara knew from his gesture that he was going to manage the interview although it was she who had sought it. She waited for him to speak.
‘They told me at Bramfield about your father,’ he said. ‘I suppose there’s no money for you, is there?’
She shook her head. She needn’t bother to deny what the whole of Rye knew. ‘My father was often ill, Sir Geoffrey. It was difficult for him to accumulate money.’
The baronet laughed aloud. ‘Drinking’s the very devil for running away with money!’ He thrust out a large, bandaged foot. ‘And when the gout gets hold of me I know the other side of it, too!’
Then, seeing her expression, his tone softened. ‘You mustn’t take it to heart, child.’ His head nodded heavily. ‘No doubt you were fond of your father ‒ that’s just as it should be. Always believe in children minding their parents. Now, my girl, Alison ‒ you’ve seen her, haven’t you? ‒ she minds what I say smartly enough. A good girl, Alison is!’
He stirred in his chair, sending the last of the papers swirling gently to the floor. ‘You’ll have to do something about earning a living now, miss. Can’t live on air, you know.’
She looked at him fully. ‘That’s what I’ve come to speak to you about, sir.’
‘Eh? … Is it now? And what have you got to say?’
Sara clasped her hands tightly underneath her cloak, and plunged ahead. ‘I’ve come to ask you for a favour, Sir Geoffrey.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘A favour? What is it?’
‘I wanted to beg you to recommend me to your sister, Lady Linton, for employment in her London house when she returns from India.’
He gasped a little, looking at her more closely.
‘How the devil do you know about Lady Linton,
and her London house?’
‘When I lived in London I was apprenticed to a dressmaker. I once watched her being fitted for a dress, and then I delivered it to her house.’
‘You did, eh? And now I suppose you think you know all about her?’ When she didn’t answer, he went on. ‘Well, damn me if I know what Lady Linton’s wishes will be about staff when she returns. Her husband died in India, and she hasn’t told me her plans for the future. The London house wasn’t opened all the five years she’s been away.’
Sara pressed her point. ‘But surely, Sir Geoffrey, all the vacancies can’t be filled already? Lady Linton has a very large house to run ‒ her entertainments are famous.’ She looked at him appealingly. ‘I’d be very useful. I’m clever with a needle, and I can do household accounts. And I could write letters for her, and …’
He held up his hand. ‘A real paragon, aren’t you, miss?’ Then he laughed. ‘Well … I suppose Lady Linton would find some use for you. I’ll ask her to take you on.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir!’
‘But wait! She isn’t expected until after Christmas. What will you do until then?’
‘Anything,’ she said eagerly. ‘Anything … Couldn’t I work for you here at the Hall, Sir Geoffrey?’
He shifted in his chair. ‘Well … I’ve never encountered such a female for knowing what she wants. No doubt you’d like to run the estate while you’re about it … eh?’ His tone was good-humoured, but he waved her suggestion aside. ‘No, no … it wouldn’t do. Too many servants at the Hall already, eating their heads off in idleness.’
Sara saw she had made a mistake. She remembered that she was the same age as Alison, and it might have occurred to Sir Geoffrey that their common friendship with Richard Barwell could prove a link between them. He was not the sort of man to encourage a companionship between his impressionable young daughter and someone of her own dubious standing. Clearly, she was not welcome at the Hall.
‘You must go to Bramfield,’ Sir Geoffrey suddenly announced.
Sara Dane Page 4