Caroline sadly wished him farewell, then slowly went back to her uncle's house, back to the dull orderly routine she had escaped from for a few brief hours.
*
Chapter 2
During the next few years, Caroline often wondered what had become of the young man, whether he had escaped to Ireland, and what he was doing now. She had heard nothing of any fugitive Royalists from the battle of Worcester being taken near Lichfield, and was sure such a capture would have caused a stir in the household. She therefore had hopes that he had escaped, and often secretly hugged herself when she thought of her own assistance, the little she had been able to contribute towards the Royalist cause. She pictured him on the Continent, with the King, as she secretly called Charles, and wished she might also be with that exiled Court, merry in spite of its poverty and tribulations. But the little she heard of it came either from her uncle thundering against its very existence, or from the servants, gossip distorted after passing through many lips, and her picture of the exiles was therefore somewhat inaccurate.
The only excitement of her life had been her betrothal to Geoffrey, which had taken place on her tenth birthday. Despite his protests, his father had persuaded him to agree to it, albeit reluctantly. The celebrations had been as Geoffrey had foreseen, no dancing, but extra prayers and sermons on the duty of wives to obedience and piety. Uncle John had revelled in this opportunity for displaying his eloquence, but most of the household had breathed secret sighs of relief when life had resumed its normal routine.
When Caroline was fourteen, the quiet, dull tenor of her life was shaken by the illness of her aunt. Caroline loved her aunt passionately. Apart from the servants, who made much of the child when they dared, Aunt Anne was the only adult who appeared to care for her.
Many times she had shielded her from the wrath of her uncle, and she had given her small presents and luxuries such as ribbons, combs, and laces, which both knew Uncle John disapproved of deeply. Though nothing was said, it was understood Caroline would bedeck herself in her finery only in the privacy of her own room, and such brief and temporary escapes from the dullness and severity of her existence meant much to her.
Now Aunt Anne was ill, seriously if one could judge from the harassed faces of those attending on her. She was gentle and kind, and all the servants loved her. They obeyed her slightest request with far greater speed and willingness than the roared commands of Uncle John.
Caroline had not been allowed into her aunt's room for more than a week. She had hovered nearby trying to catch the attention of the doctor, or to hear what he had to say to Uncle John after his visits, but had not once succeeded in speaking to him or overhearing his words. But one day, early in June, when everyone was looking graver than usual, she was sent for. Mistress Williams, who was still her governess, came to the room where she was supposed to be busy with her embroidery, to bid her comb her hair, for she was wanted in Aunt Anne's room.
Caroline looked up hopefully.
'Is she better?' she asked, with a sudden lifting of her heart. One look at the governess's face told her that this was not so, and she had a dreadful premonition that the end was near.
'Is Aunt Anne – What is it?' Mistress Williams shook her head and turned away.
'You must go,' she said, 'quickly.'
Caroline forgot all the rules of decorum as she ran along the passages to her aunt's room. Her hair was wild as she tapped on the door, and Uncle John, who opened it to her, frowned disapprovingly. But he did not speak. Instead he put his finger to his lips and beckoned her over to the big bed. She crept up to it, and was shocked to see her beloved aunt, pale and thin, propped against the pillows. Gently she took her aunt's hand in hers, whereupon the woman's eyes flickered open. Caroline could not speak, but Aunt Anne smiled at her, and then glanced at her husband, who had withdrawn to the far end of the room.
'My dear, there is not much time. I have so short a time left.'
Caroline began to protest, but Aunt Anne shook her head and smiled.
'Do not mourn for me. I have been blessed in my life, with a good husband and a comfortable home. And these wars which have rent the nation have touched me little. They have given me the one thing I lacked, a child. I shall always thank God that I had you, Prudence, though methinks it would have been better for you had your parents not died at Naseby.'
Caroline was startled out of her grief for a moment. Her parents were scarcely ever mentioned in this house, and she knew little of them or her early life. Aunt Anne continued, her voice so low that Caroline had to bend close to hear her.
'You must wonder at our silence about them?'
Caroline nodded, unable to speak.
'Go to Benny. He was your father's servant and brought you to us when they died. He can tell you their story, if you say I ask him to. But you must not tell your uncle, since he disapproves heartily of all your parents loved and died for.'
They were both silent for a while, and Aunt Anne closed her eyes, so that Caroline thought she was asleep. But she roused again, and began to speak in a low voice.
'I would be happy if I knew your future was secure. You will marry Geoffrey as soon as maybe?'
'We are betrothed,' answered Caroline, 'and I always understood we would be married when I was sixteen or so.'
'God send it,' answered the woman. 'I did not like tying you so young, but now I am pleased we did so, for he is a good boy, and you will be secure.'
Caroline was puzzled. Why talk of security when she was her uncle's heiress and had a marriage arranged?
'We had no children,' continued Aunt Anne, 'though you are as dear to me as my own would have been. God bless you and protect you, and give you a happy life.'
Her eyes blinded with tears, Caroline bent over her aunt and kissed her, something that was rarely done in this household, where displays of affection and emotion were frowned upon. The girl and the woman clung together for some moments, then Aunt Anne released her with a sigh.
Caroline kissed her again, and brushing the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her gown, turned away. Uncle John came up to her and gently led her from the room. She was too distraught to wonder at his unusually subdued manner.
After that day, she spent some time with Aunt Anne every day, watching her grow weaker, but knowing that her presence was a comfort to her aunt. Uncle John, who would normally have forbidden her the sickroom, granted the wish of his wife to have Caroline with her.
*
The end came about ten days later. One morning, Caroline was woken earlier than usual by Mistress Williams bending over her bed and gently shaking her by the shoulders.
'My dear, your Aunt Anne is asking for you. You must go at once.'
Caroline looked up, startled. It was still very early. She got up without a word, and flinging a robe round her, paused only to push her feet into some slippers before running across the room to the door. In the ordinary way, this would have brought forth clucks of dismay from her governess, but this morning she was too perturbed to even notice Caroline's attire, and the girl was quickly out of the room and along the passages to the main part of the house. There she came across some of the older servants standing about in silent groups.
They looked at her with pity as she went past them, but she did not heed them, her thoughts of what this summons meant filled her mind to the exclusion of every other thought.
After what seemed an age to Caroline, she reached her aunt's door, and Dolly, her aunt's personal maid, silently opened it for her and motioned her to enter. Caroline tiptoed into the room, to find her uncle, the doctor, and the minister standing round the big bed, upon which she could see her aunt, pale and thin, lying back on a heap of pillows. Hearing the door open, Uncle John turned round, and beckoned Caroline towards the group. She obeyed with a queer reluctance.
'Your aunt is fast approaching death,' he whispered to her, with a break in his voice, lowered for the occasion. It was normally a harsh, loud voice, and apart from his obvious
grief, he was having difficulty in moderating it to sickroom conditions. 'She cannot speak, but she is conscious, and wishes to say farewell to you.'
Caroline went over to the bed, and the men made way for her to reach her aunt.
She took the frail hand in hers, and bent over it, tears falling from her eyes. She blinked them away, and managed to look at Aunt Anne. To her surprise she saw that her aunt was smiling slightly, and the look of pain which had haunted her face in the last few days had gone. In its place was a look of peace and serenity. Though she could not speak, Caroline knew with certainty her aunt was not suffering, or in pain, or frightened. She looked, indeed, happily expectant at what awaited her in death. For a moment Caroline was shaken out of her own grief as the thought passed through her mind that people such as her aunt, whose earthly existence had been made miserable by those about them, might in truth welcome death, which would be kinder. Then the thought of the loss to herself of this kind and gentle woman who had mothered her since she was barely three years old overcame the girl, and she bent hastily over her aunt's hand to hide the rush of tears which she could not stem.
After a few minutes, during which the calm of the dying woman passed into Caroline, Uncle John came and gently raised her, and led her away.
He took her out of the room and gave her into the care of old Miriam, who had been her first nurse. The old woman, bowed down with her years and her sorrow for her mistress, led Caroline unprotesting back to her room, and after tucking her into bed once more, fetched a draught of some soporific herbal concoction of her own, which she persuaded Caroline to swallow.
Then she sat quietly by the bed till the draught took effect, and Caroline slept, a drugged but quiet sleep.
*
It was noon before she awoke again, feeling heavy and dull as a result of the drug, and there was no one with her. For a while she could not recall the events of the early morning, though she puzzled at the rays of the sun, high in the sky and falling full into the room through the casement windows. Then slowly she remembered, until she suddenly realised her aunt was dying, even dead. She struggled out of bed and dressed as quickly as possible, making the briefest toilette. Still feeling oddly unreal, she made her way downstairs, where all was unusually quiet. She could not bear to go near her aunt's room. She was in a frightened state of uncertainty, wanting to know, yet dreading to hear, how her aunt was. Eventually she made her way to the kitchen, and she could see at once from the way the maids were sitting or standing around, not attempting to work, some crying, others softly talking together, that all was over.
They had not noticed her looking through the open door, so she quickly withdrew her head, and sobbing with a passionate release of tension, ran as fast as she could out of the house and across the yard to the stables. She was making unthinkingly for the hayloft, where she could throw herself down and allow her tears full flow. Even in her grief she knew she must not display such emotion before Uncle John, who would consider it most unseemly.
Half blinded with her tears, she stumbled across the stable and up the ladder to the hayloft. It had become a favourite place of refuge to her in the last few years, when she wanted to be alone, to hide from the household to nurse her private joys and, more frequently, sorrows.
She sobbed wildly for a long time, then when the first violence of her weeping was over, she lay there more quietly, remembering the many kindnesses of her aunt, the many times she had shielded her from the wrath of her uncle. Still the occasional sob shook her, and sometimes she was overtaken by another storm of tears. It was during one of these that her uncle, exasperated she should disappear on such a day, and searching for her himself, came upon her. His anger, which would in any case have been great at finding her so dishevelled and distraught, was sharpened by his own grief, for in his own way he had loved his wife dearly. He turned the full fury of his scorn and wrath upon Caroline, who was too shaken to defend herself, even had she dared. The eloquence of the man used to preaching in the chapel and discoursing on politics to his friends and acquaintances was given full rein in his chastisement of the defenceless girl.
'How can you offend the good Lord by this unseemly bawling at such a time? It is not to our own loss we must look, but to the journey upon which one of the Lord's children has just begun. Think of that journey. A soul, marked by many sins in this world, must travel to meet her Maker and her judge. Have you no thoughts for the torments that await her? But you, having no thought for this matter, are wrapped in your own selfish loss. Does it help the rest of us to bear our sorrow with becoming humility when you, who are almost a daughter of the house, have indeed been reared to consider yourself one, show such an impious example? I begin to wonder what effect the last eleven years, during which you have been in my care, have had on you. It would seem that your earlier upbringing amongst rude soldiers and unprincipled camp followers has had the stronger influence on your character. Thank the Lord there is yet time to alter this. We must eradicate all traces of your unfortunate past, so that you may appear worthy of the destiny we have planned for you, so that you will not disgrace our family. Your parents were wild and foolish, and have left you little but unfortunate tendencies towards hysteria and disobedience. To me you owe all you have that is good, and I am determined you will realise and appreciate that, and never, by the slightest word or deed, dishonour your upbringing.
'Now compose yourself. You will, as punishment for this unseemly display, spend the next seven days in your room, with water to drink and bread as your only food. There you will have time for reflection upon your sins. No reading matter save the Holy Bible shall be left with you. I trust that by the end of the week you will be chastened and obedient, ready to behave in a fitting manner as the niece of this house and the betrothed of our neighbour.'
Shattered by this outburst, the torrent of words that flowed over her, Caroline fled to her room, managing to control her sobs as long as she was in her uncle's sight or hearing. To her intense relief he did not follow her, but sent a distressed maid to her room with a jug of water and a loaf of bread. Apologising profusely, the woman said she had been instructed to lock the door. Caroline was too worn with grief to care, her only thought being that at least she could grieve in privacy, without the presence of her uncle forcing her to assume false emotions and attitudes.
*
She remembered little of the next two days, but on the third she began to ponder on her aunt's command, for such it seemed, to ask Benny for the story of her parents. After her midday portion of bread had been brought to her, she began to wonder how she could see Benny. She was too impatient to wait until her period of punishment was over, and began to consider ways of escaping. It was no use trying to persuade the maids to help her escape through the house. They were too afraid of her uncle, and besides, had they been caught, they would have been dismissed.
She looked at the window. There was a sloping roof below, and from there she could jump to a water butt and so reach the ground. The old house was covered in creepers, and a thick branch of ivy grew past her window. Caroline could easily reach it, and as she had always been agile, used to climbing trees, she was sure she could manage this climb.
With her, no sooner had the plan been made, than it was put into operation. She tucked up her skirts, and after looking round to check there was no one at this side of the house, she climbed out of the window and lowered herself to the roof below. It was as easy as she had thought.
Once on the ground, she ran to the shelter of some bushes, and then made her way through the gardens till she came to the track leading to the village. Benny's cottage was half a mile along this track, and she soon reached it.
He was sitting on a stool at the door, an old gnarled man with a few wisps of white hair at the side of his head. His sight had been failing for the last few years, and he was unable to do much work. An unmarried daughter looked after him, and was continually chivvying him around while she swept the already spotless floor.
He seemed
asleep, basking in the hot summer sun, but as she opened the little gate in front of the cottage, he opened his eyes.
'Hello, Benny.'
'Why, it's young Mistress Prudence. Are you not supposed to be at your lessons?'
'My uncle locked me up in my room, and I've had no lessons.'
'Locked you in your room? Mercy, why did he do such a thing?'
Caroline shrugged. 'He often does. This time it was because he found me crying after Aunt Anne – after she – the day she died.'
'And he locked you in your room just for that?' asked Benny, astonished. 'He's an odd fellow, there's no doubt about that.'
'He said it was unseemly, and – oh, I have forgotten, he said so many things.'
'Aye, he is the one for words. They trip off his tongue as fast as a waterfall. But still it is strange to chastise a lass because she is full of grief for her aunt. She was the only one in that household that ever showed you any love.'
'Aunt Anne said I was to come and see you, and to tell you she wanted you to tell me about my parents.'
Benny looked surprised and doubtful.
'Please, Benny. I know so little about them, and I long to know more. Uncle John will never tell me, as he thinks they are a disgrace to him. I believe Aunt Anne would have told me, but she was too weak, and in any event, Uncle John was always in the room. She whispered that you would tell me.'
'I was made to promise your uncle I would not, when I first brought you here, long ago.'
'But Aunt Anne wanted you to tell me. Isn't that a more important reason? Besides, do I have no right to know? And you are the only person who can ever tell me. Please, Benny, I want to know about them so very much. I have disobeyed Uncle John by climbing out of my window to come to see you.'
Benny considered for a moment, then slowly nodded.
'Aye. I suppose you do have a right to know, and a dying wish must be respected.'
Cavalier Courtship Page 3