Philippa Carr - [Daughters of England 06]

by The Love Child

That turned out to be quite an eventful morning.

  There was no sign of the thaw until February. Then the booths disappeared from the river and gradually the ice began to crack.

  By that time Thomas Willerby had bought Grassland Manor, which was only about half a mile from us. My father seemed very pleased to have him as a neighbour and showed great friendship towards him.

  He visited us frequently and paid a great deal of attention to us all, but I fancied particularly to Christabel. He was clearly delighted to have made a contact which brought him into our family.

  My father was, of course, a man who was rather sought after. He was rich and influential in Court circles, being such a close friend of the King and the Duke of Monmouth—not that the latter was a favourable thing to be at this time since the Duke was in exile. But it was known that the King showed special favour to my father because he amused him.

  Thomas Willerby was a man who had not moved in the highest echelons of society. He was rich, though he had not inherited a penny. He was a countryman who had come to London to seek his fortune, which through hard work and honest dealing he had found in good measure. Having a deep respect for those born in a higher grade of society than himself, he was delighted to be received as a friend at Eversleigh.

  He and Christabel were often together. There was that trait in Christabel’s character which made her constantly imagine that she was not quite acceptable—though had she not assumed this, no one would have doubted it. But this attitude did not naturally extend to Thomas Willerby; and one day she came to me in a state of obvious pleasure.

  “I must speak to you, Priscilla,” she said. “Something wonderful has happened.”

  I begged her to tell me without delay.

  “Your father sent for me. He has told me that Thomas Willerby has asked for my hand in marriage and that he thinks it would be a suitable match. I am going to marry Thomas Willerby, Priscilla.”

  “Do you … love him?”

  “Yes,” she said fervently, “I do.”

  I embraced her. “Then I am so happy for you.”

  “I don’t really deserve this happiness,” she said.

  “Oh, nonsense, Christabel, of course you do.”

  She shook her head. “You see, this will make everything come right.”

  I was not quite sure what she meant. She hesitated for a moment, then she said: “He has admitted it now. And you should know. I always guessed, of course, when I came here…”

  “What are you talking about, Christabel?”

  “I am not the Connalts’ daughter. My father is yours and my mother was Lady Letty.”

  “Christabel!”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “theirs was an affair which had unfortunate consequences—myself. Our father was then married to his first wife, and it was unthinkable—as you yourself know—that an unmarried lady should produce a child. So I was born in secret like your own Carlotta and then I was given into the care of the Connalts to be brought up as their daughter. Lady Letty arranged the living for them and they came to the rectory with the newly born child.”

  “My dear Christabel!” I put my arms about her and kissed her. “Then we are sisters.”

  “Half sisters,” she corrected me. “But what a difference! You were acknowledged, accepted, born in wedlock. That makes all the difference.”

  I immediately thought of Carlotta and I said to myself: It shall make no difference to her. She shall have every advantage.

  “And you knew this, Christabel.”

  “Not for certain. I guessed, though. Our father used to come to the Connalts sometimes and he would watch me. I was aware of that. Lady Letty took an interest, too. She used to send things for me … although they weren’t supposed to come from her. And when I came here and was treated as I was … not like a governess really and at the same time not like a member of the family … I felt certain.”

  “I wish you had told me before.”

  “Suppose you had betrayed me? I might have been turned away.”

  I understood it all now … the bitterness, the moods of dejection. Poor Christabel!

  “It’s strange,” she said. “They call us … people born as I was … the love children. Yet love is something which we so often miss.”

  Carlotta, too, I thought. My love child. Carlotta was not going to miss love. That I should make sure of.

  “It is wonderful to discover a sister,” I said.

  “I have been so jealous of you.”

  “I know.”

  “It was hateful of me.”

  “No. I understand. You won’t be jealous now, though.”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m not jealous of anyone now. Thomas chose me right from the first. I shall always remember that.”

  “I think he is a very good man, Christabel,” I said.

  “He is,” she answered. “Oh, Priscilla, I am so happy.”

  There was nothing to delay the marriage, said my father, and so it took place almost immediately. Christabel blossomed. She was clearly very happy. She was busy furnishing Grassland Manor and she often came over to see us, bustling about in a state of ecstatic domesticity. She had her still-room and her flower garden and she fussed about Thomas Willerby in a manner which astonished me. She had always seemed a little cold before, never very demonstrative in her affections. I had never seen anyone change so much. Of course, her husband was delighted with her and no one could doubt that it was the happiest of marriages.

  Within a short time she came over to Eversleigh to confide in me that she was going to have a baby. It seemed all she needed to make her bliss complete.

  With great pride she showed me the nursery, and Thomas purred and puffed and gazed at her as though, as Carl rather irreverently remarked, she were the Virgin Mary.

  It gave me great pleasure to see their happiness and it was my turn now to feel a pang of envy. I thought how different everything would have been if Jocelyn and I had married and I had been able to make my preparations openly as Christabel did, instead of indulging in what, looking back, seemed a quite incongruous farce. Moreover I was separated from my child for long periods so I could not be very contented with my lot. I thought about consulting Harriet, asking if she could think up another plan in which I adopted Carlotta.

  That December, Christabel’s child was born. Both my mother and I went to Grassland Manor and were there during the birth. We had to comfort Thomas, who was in a panic lest anything should go wrong. His devotion to Christabel was heartwarming, and I thought what a marvellous trick of fate’s it was to have sent us out on the ice that morning.

  The birth was long and arduous. In due course though we heard the cry of a child. The look of joy which came over Thomas’s face moved me deeply.

  We sat tense, waiting. Finally the midwife emerged. “It is a boy,” she said.

  There was silence. Thomas was too overjoyed to speak.

  Then he said: “And my wife?”

  “Very, very tired. She cannot see you … not yet.”

  There was a warning in her voice and a terrible fear struck me. I looked at Thomas and saw the joy fading from his face.

  My mother said: “It was a long labour. She will be all right when she has rested.”

  During the few days which followed there were grave fears for Christabel’s survival. She had developed a fever and needed the greatest care. My father sent our doctor to her and he also brought down one of the Court doctors. I was glad he did. It showed that he had some feeling for his daughter.

  My mother and I were at Grassland Manor more often than at Eversleigh Court. Together we nursed her and great was our joy when at last we began to see signs of improvement. My father had told my mother that Christabel was his daughter. She said she had guessed and wanted to do everything she could make up for those early days at the rectory.

  “She’s going to get well,” I told Thomas.

  He just put his arms round me and clung to me. I was touched and surprised to think that Christabel had i
nspired such devotion.

  As for the baby—christened Thomas—he thrived, quite unaware of the near tragedy his coming had brought with it.

  The doctors said that Christabel must go very carefully and must not think of having more babies for a long time … if ever.

  Christmas had passed almost unnoticed and the New Year was upon us. A wet nurse had been found for Master Thomas and he gave little trouble. He was a contented child, healthy in every way and a great delight to both his parents.

  This was what Christabel had needed all her life—to be loved. She was ready enough to give love in return and I have never known any woman more contented with her lot than Christabel was with hers at that time.

  One cold January afternoon when the north wind was buffeting the walls of the house and it was comforting to be sitting before a warm fire, she confided in me.

  She said: “How strange life is, Priscilla. Only a short time ago I had nothing. The future looked bleak. I dreaded it. And then suddenly everything changed. Happiness such as I had never dreamed possible came to me.”

  “That is life, Christabel. It’s a lesson, I suppose. One shouldn’t ever be too despondent.”

  “Or too elated, perhaps.”

  “I don’t agree. When we are happy we should live it fully at the time and give no thought to the future.”

  “Is that what you thought when you were on the island with Jocelyn?”

  “I didn’t consciously think it. I suppose I was just happy to love and be loved by him. I accepted that moment and did not think beyond it.”

  “With what consequences!”

  I said: “I would not be without Carlotta for anything.”

  “I understand that, Priscilla. I’m rather wicked, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, nonsense! What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t deserve all this.”

  “Of course you do. It wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t. Do you think Thomas would be so completely in love with the sort of person you’re trying to make out you are?”

  “I’m different with him. I loved him from the moment he was so charming about the coat. He loved his first wife but she couldn’t give him children, and now we have little Thomas. He is so happy about it. He always wanted children and now he has a son. He says he can’t believe all this could come to him because of a piece of slippery ice.”

  “Well, it has come and now all you have to do is appreciate it and keep yourselves happy.”

  “I intend to. I wouldn’t do anything to spoil it.”

  “Then don’t talk of spoiling it. Don’t even think of it.”

  “I won’t. But I can’t be completely happy until you have forgiven me.”

  “I forgive you? For what?”

  “I was envious. I think I sometimes hated you. You were so kind to me, yet I couldn’t stop it. I was fond of you often, but there was this strong resentment inside me. It was horrible. It was so strong it made me want to harm you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was so conscious of being the outcast, the unwanted one, the child whose existence had been an embarrassment … like something you hide under a stone. To be put out by your parents, Priscilla, is heartbreaking to a sensitive child. I never had any love at all. The Connalts had none to give to anyone. They were the worst possible foster parents for a child like myself.”

  “It’s all over, Christabel. It’s done with. You’re out of it. You have your son and your husband who adores you, and you have this lovely home. Never mind what you suffered to get here … you’re here now and it’s going to stay this way.”

  “You will understand me, Priscilla, I know, but let me confess. It will ease my conscience.”

  “Very well. Confess.”

  “There was a horrible need in me to humiliate you as I had been humiliated. You were the legitimate daughter, I the illegitimate one. I have a very unpleasant nature, you see. I knew what was happening between you and Jocelyn. I knew how innocent you were. I knew how people feel when they are desperate. We were going on the island, remember … all three of us. Then I pleaded a headache and I didn’t go. I knew it was going to be misty. One of the gardeners told me. I deliberately let you go alone … the two of you.”

  “But why?”

  “It occurred to my devious mind that what would happen was what did. My mind was twisted. Envy does twist the mind. It’s the deadliest of emotions. It hurts the one who feels it more than the one it is directed against. Somehow I believed that it would happen as it did. You were two desperate people and it was inevitable that you should snatch at a few hours of happiness while you could. I did not think there would be a child, but this, of course, was a possibility. You see how my mind worked. I am really evil. And that I should have worked against you who have always been so kind to me …”

  “Is that all your confession?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Isn’t it enough?”

  I kissed her. “Please forget it, Christabel. I knew it long ago. Carlotta is so important to me that I cannot brood on how she came to be here. I can only rejoice that she is.”

  “It would have been better for you to have married Leigh. He loves you. Then you could have had children and they would have been with you. There wouldn’t have been all this secrecy.”

  “You have always built up trouble, Christabel. You look for it. You look for slights. I noticed that from the first. Edwin upset you.”

  “I never really cared for Edwin. I know that now. I just wanted to escape from my poverty and insignificance. Edwin is weak. I like strong men.”

  “And now you have your husband and child. Be happy, Christabel. You must be happy. You must make the most of what life has given you. If you don’t, you might lose it.”

  She shivered and I put a shawl about her shoulders.

  “I am wicked, Priscilla,” she said. “If you only knew …”

  I kissed her.

  “No more of this morbidity. Shall I ask them to bring young Thomas in?”

  She held out her hand to me and nodded.

  When we returned to Eversleigh Court a shock awaited us.

  My father was pacing up and down the hall, clearly in a state of tension and excitement.

  “What has happened?” cried my mother.

  “The King is dead,” he replied.

  My mother put her hand to her heart and turned pale.

  “Carleton, what will this mean?” she whispered.

  “That, my dear, remains to be seen.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “That also depends.”

  “Oh, God,” prayed my mother fervently, “don’t let this mean trouble.

  “It was not unexpected,” she went on. “Of course he has not been well of late.”

  “No,” added my father. “For a year or more he has been unwell and not the man he was. He was so full of health before that, tiring his friends out at walking and sport. But of late he has been mildly irritable … so rare before with him. I think I saw it coming, but not so suddenly as this.”

  “He is not old. Fifty-five is not an age to die.”

  “He has lived too well perhaps. He has had the appointed span albeit he has packed into less years more than most men do.”

  They were talking round the real issue which was how would Monmouth act now, and more important still, what did my father intend to do?

  My father went on talking about the King’s death, how the evening before he became ill he had been in the midst of the company and seemed well enough. He had supped with his concubines—the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Cleveland and Mazarin—and had given them many caressing displays of affection as was his wont. There had been the usual gambling and music, and they had all been enchanted by the singing of a little French boy who had been sent over by the courtesy of the King of France.

  The King had visited the apartments of the Duchess of Portsmouth and had been lighted back to his rooms, where he had joked in his usual benevolent ma
nner. The gentleman-in-waiting, whose duty it was to sleep on a mattress in his room along with the spaniels which were the King’s constant companions, had said that the King had groaned in his sleep and when he arose did not seem well. He had taken a few drops of the medicine he had invented himself and which was called “The King’s Drops.” My father had had it given to him on more than one occasion and the King had described the ingredients to him: they were opium, bark of elder and sassafras all mixed up together in wine. Fifteen drops of this in a glass of sherry was considered to be a cure for all ailments. It had failed to cure the King, and when his servants were shaving him they were horrified to see his face grow suddenly purple, his eyes roll to the ceiling as he lolled forward in his chair. They could not understand what he was trying to say. They thought he was choking. He tried to rise and fell back into their arms. They feared death was imminent.

  The Duke of York—the heir—came running to his brother’s bedside with one foot in a slipper and the other in a shoe. They had not known whether Charles had recognized him.

  “York!” cried my father angrily. “It is a sad day for this country with such a King. Charles knew the people did not want James. Didn’t he say once: ‘They’d never get rid of me, James, because that would mean having you. Therefore the crown is safe on my head.’ Oh, why didn’t he legitimatize Monmouth!”

  “There would still have been those who stood for James.”

  “The Catholics, yes,” retorted my father angrily. Then he went on to tell us how attempts had been made to save the King’s life. Every remedy known had been used: hot irons pressed to his forehead, a liquid made from the extraction from skulls of dead men and women forced down his throat. He had been in great pain, but he had regained control of his speech and managed to joke in his wonted manner.

  “We thought he was going to live,” said my father. “You should have seen the joy in people’s faces. They wanted to light their bonfires everywhere. Alas, it was a little too early to rejoice. There was a relapse and then there could be no doubt that he was dying. He showed more concern for his mistresses and his illegitimate children than anyone else.”

  “And Monmouth?” asked my mother.