‘Yes, it was very sad.’
‘Then please don’t talk about it if it distresses you.’
‘I think you should know of it.’
‘Was it long ago?’
‘Ten years,’ he said.
‘But that is a very long time.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it has seemed a very long time.’
‘And did you never want to marry anyone until now?’
He hesitated. Then he said, ‘I thought of it once … but decided against it.’
‘So you weren’t really in love.’
‘I thought it might be unwise.’
I got up and, going to him, stood behind him and placing my hands on his shoulders, laid my face against his head.
‘And you do not think it unwise now?’
‘I think this could perhaps be the right thing for me. I have to consider whether it would be right for you.’
‘No,’ I cried vehemently, ‘that is for me to say.’
He took my hand from his shoulder and pressed his lips to it.
‘As you see, Angelet, I am not a very merry man.’
‘No, you are serious. I like that. You are the King’s general. You have a high position in his army.’
‘Which takes me away from home frequently. Would you like that?’
‘I should not like you to be away from me but I would accept it.’
‘Then life is rather quiet in Far Flamstead. It is different from here. I do not entertain there very much. I never have. In fact I am not the most sociable of men.’
‘I am not very good at balls and banquets.’
‘We should have to attend them occasionally. Sometimes we should have to be at Whitehall.’
‘Then I should enjoy that because it was not often.’
‘You are determined to find everything to your liking.’
‘I believe that is how it is when one is in love.’
‘Oh Angelet,’ he said, ‘I can’t do this. You are too young. You have had no experience of living.’
‘You will give me my experience. Is that not what a husband should do?’
‘I am afraid,’ he said.
‘Please do not be afraid that I will not be suitable.’
‘I am afraid that I am the one who will fail you.’
‘This must be the strangest proposal ever made,’ I said. ‘You ask me to marry you and then you proceed to tell me why I shouldn’t.’
‘All I want is for you to be sure and not to discover that you have made a terrible mistake.’
‘I am sure,’ I cried. ‘I am. I am.’
Then he stood up and he held me in his arms. I had never been embraced by a man before so I had no way of judging it.
I thought he was very tender and I knew that I was going to be very happy.
He called next day and asked to see Gervaise. They were together for some time, during which I waited in a fever of impatience. I knew that all would be well because the decision would rest with my parents, and I was sure that if I told my mother I loved this man and could never be happy without him, she would surely give her consent. Then I supposed I would have to wait for my father’s, but that need not be so, for he would sanction anything of which she approved and she knew it.
Gervaise sent for me and when I went in Richard was with him.
I could see that Gervaise was a little disturbed, for I had come to know that he was a man who felt he had a duty towards me and would regard that duty with the utmost seriousness.
‘You know, my dear,’ he said, ‘that General Tolworthy is asking for your hand in marriage. I believe you have accepted his proposal.’
‘Yes,’ I said warmly and happily, ‘I have,’
‘Then,’ said Sir Gervaise, ‘I will write at once to your mother, and you perhaps should do the same, as the General will, and the letters can be despatched today.’
‘I understand Angelet’s father is on the high seas,’ said Richard.
‘He often is,’ I cried, ‘and we never know when he will be home. My mother will speak for them both.’
Richard looked askance at Gervaise, who said: ‘I believe that could be so. Let us all write our letters and they can then be despatched without delay.’
I went to my room, my head whirling with delight. I wrote to both my mother and my sister, and I knew that they would read the happiness in my letters. When I tried to describe him it was difficult. I could not say he was like this or that one, for there was simply no one like him. He was different from all other men. He was important. He was a general in the King’s army. He was a friend of the King’s and the Queen’s and he would defend them with his life. He was serious. They need not think he was a frivolous man of the town. No, he was a steady clever soldier, and his great concern was that he should make me happy.
I knew my mother would never be able to withhold her consent when she read my letter.
Carlotta was piqued when she heard the news.
‘I simply do not believe it,’ was her first comment. And afterwards: ‘I always thought there was something strange about Richard Tolworthy.’
‘There was a time when you thought him rather attractive,’ I pointed out, and added maliciously: ‘That was when you thought he preferred you.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘In any case you’re far too young for marriage.’
‘I shall be eighteen.’
‘You are immature for your age,’ she told me, and walked out of the room.
Yes, she was very angry.
Ana whispered to me: ‘She is angry because she does not like any but herself to be preferred.’
Mab said the same and I knew that they were right.
Richard left on duty and said that he would be away for a week or so and as soon as he was free to do so he would call on us.
Meanwhile we waited and I lived in a dream. I did not look into the future. I could not because I found it very hard to imagine what it would be like. There was a house, Far Flamstead, which I had not seen and which Richard had not described very clearly. He was not good at descriptions, I thought fondly. I knew its whereabouts roughly but he had never suggested taking me there, which was perhaps rather strange, but I had a notion that he wanted to wait for my family’s consent before he regarded us as betrothed.
It seemed a long time before the letters came.
‘My dearest Angelet,’ wrote my mother,
‘I was surprised to hear the news and your happiness came through to me. I wish it were possible for us to come to London, but that is quite out of the question. Bersaba is not yet strong enough to travel. My dear child, I understand how you are feeling. This is a wonderful thing that has happened to you. Sir Gervaise has written to me and so has General Tolworthy. He sounds a very serious man and eager to care for you. And you are truly in love with him. You could not disguise your true feelings from me if you tried.
I wish your father were here, but you know we can never be sure when he will return, and Fennimore is not even here either. I know that you do not want to wait. I have experienced this myself when I was your age, so I am writing to General Tolworthy and to Sir Gervaise and telling them that they have your family’s consent to your marriage.
Oh my dearest, how different it is from what I imagined! I had planned that you should be married in this house and naturally I thought it would be someone hereabouts and that you would live near to me and Trystan Priory. But this is clearly what you want and I know how unhappy you would be if I withheld my consent.
So, my dear, be happy. You may become betrothed. Perhaps you could come down here to be married. I wonder if that is possible?
Bersaba is writing to you. It will be but a short note. There is a great change in your sister, but she is gradually though slowly regaining her strength.
I hope to hear from you soon, my darling.
My dearest love as ever,
Mother.’
I kissed the letter. How like her. So calm, so reasonable. It was not
what she had planned. Of course it wasn’t. Who would have believed Bersaba would have fallen ill and I should come to London and find my husband there. But she accepted it. It was life, and she remembered the time when she and my father were young and how dearly she had loved him!
And from Bersaba:
‘Dear Angelet,
So you are to be married. Fancy! I always thought we’d be married together. I hope you will be happy.
You will see a great change in me when we meet. I have been so ill, as you know, but you can’t know what a change there is in me. I have to rest a great deal, and there are you going to balls and meeting interesting people, and now you are going to be married. I want to see you, Angelet, so much. There is such a lot I want to say. I can’t write more now because I am so tired and they are waiting to take the letters.
Do come home and bring your future husband. I long to see you both.
Your loving twin, Bersaba.’
It was the first letter she had written to me in her life because we had always been together and she had been too weak to write before.
Try as I might I could not imagine her languid in her bed, she who had always been so vital in her somewhat secret way.
But I confess I was too excited to think very much about my home. My future was here.
Richard rode over and was closeted with Sir Gervaise, and after a while he came to the parlour, where I was waiting for him.
‘This is good news,’ he said. ‘We have your mother’s consent and she assures us that she speaks for your father. There is nothing now to prevent our betrothal.’
He took my left hand and put a ring on the third finger. It was a strange ring—a twist of gold very elaborately engraved, with a square-cut emerald set in it.
It seemed to fit me perfectly.
‘A good omen,’ he said. ‘It’s the family ring, always worn by the brides of the eldest son.’
I admired it. It was certainly unusual.
Then he kissed me very solemnly.
He supped with us, and he and Sir Gervaise talked at length about the insurrection in Scotland and the covenant the Scots had entered into which was against the government.
‘There could be trouble there,’ said Richard, ‘and we have to be ready to meet it.’
‘There is a great deal of unease everywhere,’ admitted Sir Gervaise. ‘What do you think will be the outcome?’
‘I can’t say, of course, but if this trouble goes on I should be prepared for … just anything.’
Sir Gervaise nodded gravely.
Carlotta clearly found this conversation boring and changed it to matters more agreeable to herself, which was the affairs of people she knew and what entertainments were planned in the future, which Richard—I was gleefully aware—found as trivial as she found his interests dull. I wondered how she could ever have thought that he was interested in her. I wanted him to know that I would be happy to learn the serious side of the country’s affairs and would listen enraptured while he talked to me of the hazards of government.
After Richard had left I retired to my room and I had not been there very long when there was a knock on my door and Carlotta entered.
She threw herself on to my bed and looked at me quizzically.
‘What a bore!’ she cried. ‘I fancy you are not going to have a very lively life with the brave General.’
‘It is the life I have chosen.’
‘My dear girl, you can hardly call it a choice. There was no one else to choose from, was there?’
‘I didn’t need anyone else.’
‘Your first proposal and you accepted. I can’t tell you how many I had before I took Gervaise.’
‘I knew of my cousin Bastian, of course.’
‘Oh, that was never serious.’
‘It was to him.’
‘A country boy! He just did not understand. That could hardly be called my fault.’
‘I should call it that.’
‘Oh dear, you are giving yourself airs. It doesn’t become you, Angelet. You got your General by that little girl manner … someone whom he can mould. I can see his thinking that he’ll train you like a recruit in his army to go weak at the knees every time the General appears. Don’t you think you should consider a little and not rush into this?’
‘I have considered.’
‘Now that my mother has left I feel responsible for you.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘You are after all a guest in my house.’
‘I feel that Sir Gervaise is my host.’
‘You have a hostess too, my dear, and you only knew Gervaise when he came briefly to Cornwall, but you and I are a kind of cousin, aren’t we? Not blood relations but … my mother and your mother brought up as sisters. So I feel I can talk to you as poor Gervaise couldn’t.’
‘I feel complete confidence in poor Gervaise.’
‘And you say poor in that way, implying that he is so because he is married to me. Let me tell you, my dear Angelet, Gervaise is very content with his marriage. There is more to the condition, you should know, than being polite in company. In some respects—and I fancy you know little about this—I am very satisfactory indeed.’
I had a notion of what she was referring to. There was another side to marriage and it was true I had never experienced it, though I knew of its existence. I had seen lovers at home, secret meetings in secret places. Fumbling embraces … and such like.
I had to admit she had made me apprehensive, for she was right that I had no conception of what that would mean and she was implying that Sir Gervaise and she were in tune in this rather special way.
She was fully aware that she had aroused my uneasiness and this gave her some pleasure.
‘Let me see the ring,’ she said.
I held out my hand and she slipped it from my finger.
‘It has an engraved T inside, I see.’
‘It has been worn by the brides of the eldest son through the ages.’
‘Do you care to wear a ring that has been worn by so many before you?’
‘It’s a tradition,’ I said.
She stared down at the ring in the palm of her hand.
‘So it was worn by your predecessor,’ she said slowly. ‘It must have been taken from her finger when she was dead.’
She handed me back the ring with a smile.
‘Good night,’ she said. And she added: ‘And good luck.’ The implication was that I might need it.
After she had gone I sat in my chair, staring at the ring in the palm of my hand. I was picturing a woman in her coffin and Richard leaning over her to take off the ring.
It was an unpleasant image and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. So much so that it haunted my dreams in a vague intangible way and I woke up in the darkness trembling. I think I had thought that I was lying in my coffin and Richard was saying, ‘All right. We mustn’t forget the ring. I shall need that for the next one.’
I found it difficult to sleep after that.
The betrothal had taken place at the beginning of April and then the preparations began, for the wedding was to be in May.
‘A month or so before your eighteenth birthday,’ said Richard.
I couldn’t help remembering my last birthday when we had been out in the fields near Trystan Priory. I mustn’t forget it was Bersaba’s birthday too. It was then that our mother had said, ‘Next birthday will be different. There will be parties and such like.’ And she had given us our journals to write and I had started immediately. Bersaba had said she would only write in hers when she had something important to write about. Poor dear Bersaba! She would have something to write about now. What a lot had happened in a short year! There could not be a better example of the truism that life was made up of light and shadow. The tragedy of Bersaba’s sickness; the joy of my marriage. I embroidered a bag for her which I would send for her birthday. It was exquisite and I had put a good deal of work in it. She would love it for that reason because she would
know that with my approaching wedding I should have so much to do and yet I still set time aside for her.
The sudden April showers and brief sunshine were giving way to more settled weather, May was a beautiful month that year—more so than usual, I was sure. The scent of the hawthorn hung heavy in the air and I thought it intoxicating, but perhaps it was my happiness after all. Ana was working hard for me. Carlotta had graciously allowed her to do so. Poor Mab was not very good. She was in a twitter of excitement about the coming marriage and thought herself to be so lucky to have been chosen to come to London with me, where so many exciting things could happen.
We went frequently into the city to buy what was needed. I began to enjoy these jaunts and forgot the unpleasantness I had experienced there. I was never foolish enough to leave whoever I was with and I did avert my eyes when I saw a pillory, but I never saw that grim spectacle again.
There seemed always to be something going on. I saw people dance round the maypole on May Day and crown the May Queen; I saw lovers embracing in the fields on sunny afternoons; I heard their laughter as they shouted to each other—apprentices and serving girls. I saw them on the river and arm-in-arm in the streets. I watched the travelling pedlars—and they often came to Pondersby Hall and spread their packs for us to see—calling their wares as they went through the streets. I listened to the chat between them and their customers. I would watch the corn-cutter, who in addition to dealing with painful feet could pull out a troublesome tooth, and this usually attracted a crowd to watch the anguish of the poor victim. There were jugglers and fiddlers and often there would be cock-fighting in a corner of the street, a practice which filled me with disgust, but I never had to see the actual contest because so many crowded round to witness the so-called sport that I could not have looked in had I wanted to.
Then of course there were the shops—the object of our visits—and so much beautiful cloth to examine, so many ribbons to choose. Ana and I would spend hours in this fascinating occupation. She said it was all part of the preparations for marriage. Perhaps there should have been other preparations. If my mother had been with me or Bersaba, I could have talked to them. Perhaps I could have learned … But I should learn gradually, and Richard would be kind, respecting my ignorance.
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