‘Bramfield?’ she echoed sharply. ‘As a servant?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked at her with mild astonishment. ‘Is there something wrong with Bramfield? I always understood you were employed in domestic duties there.’
‘I was not a servant!’
‘Come, come! This is no time for false pride. You must take what offers.’
She looked at his face, and saw there was no way out. Either she must do what he said, or lose his help. So she managed to smile, while she was raging in her heart against the ill-luck that was sending her back to Bramfield as a servant. But her slanting, greenish eyes were fully upon him as she made a little speech of gratitude. He was charmed, and grew benevolent.
‘You’ll enjoy being with Lady Linton. She’s notoriously indulgent to those who please her ‒ and I don’t doubt you’ll suit her well.’
He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Be off with you now, miss. You’ve had enough in favours from me for one day.’
She rose, and made a low curtsy to him.
He stopped her as she was leaving. ‘I’m sorry your father’s death has left you this way,’ he said kindly. ‘But you’ll get on all right ‒ I can tell that. You’re not the sort of girl who’ll miss her chances.’
Before she left the Hall she was given a meal by Sir Geoffrey’s orders, and the groom drove her back to Rye in the chaise. All the way back she hugged to herself the satisfaction of what she had achieved. She remembered Lady Linton’s reputation before she had left for India with her husband ‒ an open-minded, generous creature, affectionate and impulsive. In the dress salons they had gossiped of her brilliant receptions, of the extravagance with which she ran her household. Sara knew that in getting a place with Lady Linton she had dropped into what could only be ease and comfort. And much more might be made of it if she used her wits.
She chose to ignore, for the moment, the thought of the months that must yet be lived through at Bramfield. And as yet she could think of no way of seeing Richard Barwell once she left the Marsh. But she would see him again ‒ she was quite determined about that.
Within a week Sebastian’s possessions were sold, Sara had packed her few belongings, and was in service at Bramfield. It was now the early days of the autumn, and at the same time Richard’s commission in the Army came through. Self-conscious in his new uniform he bid her a formal goodbye in the hall of the rectory. Recalling that awkward, uncomfortable parting, she thought miserably that all that seemed to remain of their idyll of a summer evening on the shore was Sebastian’s ring on Richard’s left hand.
Sir Geoffrey had forced her back upon Bramfield, but the interest he had displayed in her did nothing to improve her status there. She no longer had access to the schoolroom, and the books in the library were forbidden her. The servants themselves made capital of her position in the household, passing on the most menial of tasks, knowing well that she had no possible redress. She slept in an unheated attic with the cook and the one other maid kept at the rectory; she was bitterly resentful of the lack of privacy, hating their rough, country accents, and the coarseness of their conversation. Because they were uncertain what they should make of her sudden relegation from the schoolroom to the kitchen, they became tyrants, taking their cue from Mrs. Barwell’s own hostility. Sara was unhappy, and bound to Bramfield as securely as if she had been imprisoned there. Only the promise of Richard’s return at Christmas made the empty weeks bearable.
But when he did come he was changed. He was stiff with her, and off-handed; she saw early that he did not know how best to face the problem of her altered status ‒ so he avoided it by avoiding her. And, strangely enough, she was able to understand this, and forgive it, too ‒ for she found that she was herself unable to meet the situation. Richard dodged her in the house, and she astonished herself by doing the same thing with him.
She received the greatest blow to her sense of security in his friendship on Christmas Day ‒ a day spent in the quiet and temperate fashion of a clergyman’s home, a sober day, making her long for the gaiety of Christmas dinners eaten with Sebastian. In the early evening Nell, the other maid kept by the Barwells, drowsy after the large meal, roused herself reluctantly from her chair before the kitchen fire to answer the ringing of the drawing-room bell. She returned some minutes later, still grumbling and stifling her yawns.
‘The parson’s mightily in favour when Sir Geoffrey and Miss Alison take to calling on Christmas Day,’ she said shrugging her heavy shoulders. ‘’Tis a time for folk to be staying put at home ‒ unless there be special reason to take them out.’
The cook stirred herself to poke the fire. ‘There’ll be a marriage there soon, I’ll be bound. Miss Alison has quite a fancy for Master Richard. And vicar’ll not stand in the way ‒ not with Sir Geoffrey’s money in sight.’
Nell sniffed as she settled back into her chair once more. ‘I’m thinking the lass who takes Master Richard will need all the money she can put her hands on ‒ for she’ll get nought with him but his handsome face. For all his taking ways and pretty manners, he’s not the young man to push ahead for himself.’
Sara leaned far back in her seat, trusting that the dim light of the candles and the fire would not betray the flush on her cheeks. She sat very still, listening to the wind outside, and to the cook’s breathing; she repeated to herself over and over again, what had been said about Richard and Alison. Her thoughts were painful to her, like the sudden opening of something secret and hidden.
She needed time and solitude to adjust herself to this new idea that Richard might indeed marry Alison. She could not squarely face it in this atmosphere of servants’ gossip, in the unfriendly air of a room in which she was never welcome. Yet even with the desire to be away from them so strong, she schooled herself to sit there quietly, enduring their occasional remarks, waiting until cook’s heavy breathing had become a snore, before she rose silently and went to the door.
Outside in the passage the intense cold struck at her, and she heard a querulous voice in the kitchen raised in complaint about the draught. She closed the door, and made her way to the back stairs, mounting to the first floor, and pausing there. Above was the attic where she slept, and where she would be found if either woman in the kitchen came up. But close to this landing was the schoolroom, forbidden to her, but a secure enough retreat while the family was gathered with Sir Geoffrey and Alison in the drawing-room. Her hesitation was short, because her need for solitude had suddenly become desperate. The door was unlocked when she tried it.
Inside it was dark; the windows were squares of black slightly less dense than the blackness surrounding them. She fumbled and groped, her hands encountering objects long familiar to them, until she found the candle upon the mantelshelf. She lit it, and the single flame thrust its flickering light into the corners, revealing the bare, shabby room, no different now from the time when Sebastian had ruled in it. Her eyes rested on the clean-wiped slates, the shelves of tattered books, and the huge Latin dictionary upon its stand. The uncurtained windows framed the bleak openness of the Marsh, now wrapped in darkness. She moved to the desk that had been Sebastian’s, and sat down, breathing in the remembered smell of ink and chalk. It was very cold. She rubbed her hands together, thinking that there had been little wisdom in her decision to come here at all. There was nothing here but memories of Sebastian, Richard, and William ‒ William, who now, with a new tutor, held sway in this room. Draughts played tricks with the candle, and the shadows jumped in obedience. It was not difficult to fancy that she once more occupied a place on that long bench, and that presently Sebastian, Richard, and William would come to join her. The feeling was so strong that the gossip she had heard in the kitchen faded from reality ‒ it was impossible, sitting there, to believe that Sebastian was dead, that Richard was in the Army, and already there was talk of his marriage.
Carried away by her thoughts, she heard no sound until the door opened. She turned swiftly, guiltily, to encounter Richard himself in the doorway.
‘I saw the light,’ he said, ‘and I wondered …’
She half-rose, and then dropped back. The feeling of Sebastian’s desk beneath her hand was security. Her spirits lifted a little, remembering her father’s refusal to be subservient, and she said, with a touch of defiance, ‘I’m not supposed to be here, I know ‒ but I came.’
For answer, Richard stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind him.
‘Do you have to talk in that fashion to me, Sara?’ he asked quietly. ‘Have things altered so much ‒ are we not still friends?’
She thrust her head up. ‘More things have altered, Richard, than the new coat you wear.’
He took a few steps towards her, halted, then came the rest of the way, until he stood over her. She waited, watchful. He bent and took her chin between his fingers.
‘You’ve grown up in these months, little Sara. You’ve altered also.’
The touch of his fingers unnerved her. ‘Oh, Richard,’ she cried, ‘why do things have to change? If only we could be back here …’ Her gesture indicated the empty desks, the ink-stained floor.
‘Are you miserable?’ he asked her, gently. ‘Are you unhappy?’
She could find no words to reply to him.
‘I’m sorry if being at Bramfield has made you unhappy.’ His fingers left her chin, and reached up to her hair, stroking it back from her forehead in just the way Sebastian might have done. ‘I hate to think of you being unhappy.’
‘Does it matter to you, then?’ she said, too sharply.
The motion of his hand ceased. ‘Of course it matters!’ He straightened, dropping his hand to his side. ‘It won’t last much longer, Sara. Not more than a few months now. Lady Linton should arrive any time ‒ you’ll be in London within three months.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘I imagine it’s possible to be just as lonely in London as here on Romney. Isn’t it, Richard?’
‘Lonely? Sara!’ He gave a rather excited laugh. ‘What a silly little fool you are! Lady Linton keeps a fashionable house in London ‒ there’ll never be a dull moment! You’ll forget what it was like on Romney, never seeing a new face from month’s end to month’s end.’
His voice was so low now that it was scarcely more than a murmur. ‘And, Sara … I’ll be there too!’
She raised her head, the movement so quick that the candle flame quivered thinly. ‘You’ll be there? How …?’
He smiled. ‘Not in London exactly. But near enough to spend some time there.’ His smile widened ‒ a sudden return to the spirit of companionship they had known in this room. The smile was accompanied by a twinkle in his eyes, a sense of fun that lurked about the corners of his mouth.
She looked at his handsome, smooth face, the thickness of his curling black hair, and the stiff collar holding his head in that position of faint arrogance which somehow seemed natural to him since these first months in the Army. She saw all these things and wondered if his pleasing face and elegant manners didn’t bring him all he wanted too easily. He was the son of a country parson, without money or influence, but already he had won a small showing of favour with his commanding officers, and Sir Geoffrey Watson was a powerful ally for any young man to claim. The quick smile and laugh of the favourite came readily to his lips. She guessed that Richard, lacking so many other essentials, would perforce have to climb solely on his good looks and charm.
She moved her arm, as if to stretch it out to him, but then withdrew it. The candle fluttered, casting further shadows across his face. In that brief second she had a vision of him turning into an amiable, smiling lackey to those of wealth or influence.
‘Why do you stare at me like that, Sara?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t it please you to know that I shall see you in London?’
‘In London …? Oh, yes, Richard!’
‘Well, then, why such a long face?’ He laughed, returning to his good humour. ‘Think of it, Sara! I mean to visit the play-houses. I’ll see all the sights I’ve dreamed about while I’ve sat in this room multiplying columns of figures.’ He suddenly demanded of her, ‘What do you want to do most in London? Tell me!’
She smiled at his excitement. ‘London is not as new to me as you seem to imagine, Richard. Don’t you remember that I was born there?’
He looked at her, and said more slowly, ‘Yes … yes, I do keep forgetting that.’
He put his hands behind his back, taking a half-step away from her. ‘I keep forgetting,’ he said, ‘that you have ever had any other life before you came here. That’s selfish, I know ‒ keeping you locked up here where you haven’t always belonged.’ He shook his head then, slightly. ‘You’re not like me, are you? I was born here, and I’ve never been away from it until this year. You’ve seen a much bigger world than mine, Sara, yet, to me, you belong here and to nowhere else. Away from here, when I thought about Romney, I thought about you. When I remembered the way the light was reflected back off the dykes, I couldn’t help thinking of your hair. It was you all the time. I suppose I was homesick for Romney … I was homesick, and the feeling was all mixed up with you.’
Abruptly his tone changed. ‘Do I sound stupid?’
She shook her head.
‘I thought a great deal about our evenings on the shore with your father. You remember them, Sara?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Of course you remember them. Neither of us shall ever forget. I suppose they’re as perfect a thing as we’ll ever have to remember.’
And then he bent down and kissed her softly on the lips. ‘That’s for all the beauty you’ve given me to remember.’
As he started to straighten she caught his hand. ‘Are you sure you want to remember it, Richard?’
‘Always,’ he murmured, and he kissed her again.
She stood up and gave him her lips fully. It was the first time she had ever been kissed in this way, and her immediate response startled her. She could feel his arms around her tightly, and her own fingers were locked behind his neck. They clung to each other, bodies pressed together, suddenly firing with passion the memories of their years of friendship. Sara knew she was casting away her childhood in that kiss, was altering for ever the relationship between herself and Richard. Yet she went on kissing him, quite aware now that this was what she had wanted him to do, what her vague longings for his return had centred upon. Plainly her reason told her that this wild feeling was her love and desire for Richard ‒ the emotion to which, until this moment, she had never given real acknowledgement. Now every particle of her body was deeply satisfied by his kisses.
Their grip on each other slackened at last. Richard drew his lips away from hers to press them against her eyelids, her forehead. Then he put his face in her hair.
‘My dear!’ he said. ‘My sweet Sara!’
She could feel his breath against her face; he was leaning heavily on her, clinging to her. Something in his stance vaguely frightened her. It hardly seemed that he clung to her with love or possessiveness, but as if he sought help and support.
‘Sara!’ he said again, and now it was like a cry of entreaty.
Hearing it, she suddenly seemed to hear in her ears a rush of wind, a cold wind blowing about her like the whisperings of prudence. A touch of reality reached her at last, after the warmth of their passion.
She broke free of him, stepping back and pressing both her hands against her ears to shut out this frightening sound.
‘No, Richard!’ she said hoarsely. ‘You’ll leave me and marry Alison!’
His face went white. There was an expression of fear upon it ‒ the expression of a child suddenly insecure.
‘Marry Alison!’ he repeated. ‘Marry Alison!’ He pushed his hand distractedly through his hair. ‘My God, you must be mad, Sara! What makes you think that I could marry Alison?’
‘They said …’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was settled.’
He caught her arm sharply. ‘Who said? What are you talking about?’
‘Cook said it ‒ and Nell. They said it was a
lmost settled.’
He regarded her sternly. ‘How you’ve altered when you listen now to servants’ gossip! And you’ve accepted this as truth without having asked me about it?’
‘What else could I think?’ she said miserably. ‘How could I ask you? I’ve never seen you alone until now. You don’t make it easy to talk.’
He flushed, turning his eyes away from her. ‘I know. And I’m damned sorry about it. But don’t think I haven’t wanted to talk with you.’
And again he drew her to him. It was a gentle, confident movement ‒ and when he began again to stroke her hair, more than ever it felt like Sebastian. The tenderness of his unconscious action caused the tears to prick at the back of her eyes. She wanted to lay her head against his shoulder and to sob out the misery of the last month.
‘Dear Sara,’ he said, ‘I don’t think of anyone else but you. How could I? Forget about Alison! That’s all imaginative nonsense ‒ servants’ gossip! I swear to you that I’ve made no suggestion of marriage to her.’
He tilted her face towards him.
‘I’ll marry no one but you.’
She gasped, stiffening in his arms.
‘You can’t marry me ‒ a servant!’
He answered her with a vigorous shake. ‘A servant! You’re the daughter of the man who was my greatest friend. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Don’t you want to marry me?’
‘Marry you? ‒ of course I do. But wanting you and having you are two different things.’ Her fingers gripped his uniform sleeves tightly.
‘I mean to have you, Sara. When I get promotion I’ll be able to marry you. If there’s war with France I should get it quickly. Will you promise to wait?’
‘Wait …?’ Suddenly the knitted points of her eyebrows straightened; she smiled up at him. ‘Yes ‒ I’ll wait.’
Then she added quickly, ‘And we’ll manage, Richard, somehow.’
She buried her face in his tunic, and a sense of triumph and joy swept through her. The future was before both of them, uncertain, clouded. It was there to make what they could of it ‒ but they would do it together.
Sara Dane Page 5