Saraband for Two Sisters

by Philippa Carr

  Ella was lying on the farmhouse floor among the wreckage. In her hand was an axe. She must have tried to defend her home. Poor brave Ella! How futile she would be against those soldiers!

  The cask of ale was turned on its side and its contents had run all over the kitchen floor; they had broken everything they could, the beams had been torn down—only the walls of the house still stood.

  I knelt by Ella and a wild anger filled me. I hated them all—all those who had killed first Luke and then Ella. I wanted no more of this conflict.

  How can anything matter when it is achieved through this, I cried, and I felt sick with my pain and anger.

  I could not mount the stairs, for they had been torn up. There was a hole in the ceiling through which a bedpost hung. This farmhouse, the home of Longridges for generations, had been destroyed in a single day.

  Angelet was beside me, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Bersaba, my dearest sister,’ she sobbed.

  I put my arms about her to comfort her, but she went on sobbing while I looked about at the destruction of my home.

  I said: ‘The children are safe. Let us be thankful for that. My husband is dead, my sister in marriage is dead, my home is in ruins, but thank You, oh merciful God, for leaving me my children.’

  ‘You must not blaspheme, Bersaba.’

  ‘No!’ I cried. ‘I must stand by and thank God for mercies received. Is that it? My husband is recently dead. Do you understand that?’

  She said: ‘You were always angry in your grief.’

  ‘Oh, the cruelty of it,’ I mourned. ‘You see, Angelet, I have lost my husband. I have lost my home … I have lost so much that was dear to me.’

  ‘You have me, Bersaba,’ she said, ‘and while I am here you will always have a home.’

  I turned to her then and I believe I was weeping too, though I was not conscious of it.

  She said: ‘Come away, my dearest sister, come away with me. I am going to take you back with me. Your home will be my home. We shall never be parted unless it is your wish.’

  Then she led me away and I returned with her to Far Flamstead.

  As we crossed the threshold she said: ‘Oh, this is cruel … cruel.’

  And I was the one who answered firmly: ‘It is war.’

  ANGELET

  Fear in the House

  YESTERDAY, BERSABA CAME BACK to live at Far Flamstead. I keep thinking of the desolation of the farm and the look in her eyes when she spoke so bitterly of all that had befallen her. My poor Bersaba! So she did indeed love Luke. I often wondered because the marriage seemed so incongruous.

  He loved her deeply. Once he said to me: ‘When Bersaba comes into a room she lights it up.’ And I knew what he meant. I don’t think he could have told me more clearly how he loved her.

  There is nothing entirely bad in life, I believe. Even with all that has happened we have the dear little children here: Arabella, Lucas and poor Phoebe’s Thomas. I love to see them running about in the gardens and listen to their shrieks as they run about. That must be balm to Bersaba’s grief.

  I am so relieved that she is here. Sometimes the house frightens me. It always did; then Bersaba came and I wasn’t afraid. Then she went away but it was not far and I could go to the farm often. But now she is here again and that at least pleases me.

  There has always been something about the house which frightens me. There is the castle, for instance. When I see those walls I start to imagine all sorts of things. I can never forget the nightmare I had once. I believe I did see a man’s face there, but as time passes and everyone else thinks it was a nightmare I begin to believe that too.

  I have come to the conclusion, though, that there is something in the castle which has to be hidden, and while these thoughts insist I must be uneasy in my mind. I have asked Richard about it, but he becomes so displeased and says that it might be dangerous to go in there and that is why he built the wall; I want to talk about it to him but I dare not.

  I have a secret now which I haven’t told anyone, not even Bersaba, though I expect now that she is here in the house she will worm it out of me. I think I rather want her to.

  It may be that I am going to have a child. When Richard came home last time and we were together, I prayed and prayed then that I might have a child and I really believe my prayers were answered.

  If I could, everything would be so worthwhile. When I see Bersaba with her two and Phoebe with hers I am envious of them. I would give anything for a child.

  I am sure Richard wants one too. It would make things easier between us, perhaps. I have never really understood him. He has never been close to me … not as Luke was with Bersaba. She used to tease him about matters which were sacred to him, argue with him, seek to discountenance him—and he seemed to enjoy it, which seemed to me so strange but somehow indicated a closeness between them. Of course I was never able to juggle with words as she could. And then when he said that about the room lighting up it showed me so clearly what she was to him.

  It is a terrible tragedy that she has lost him, but then, as I constantly tell her, she has the children.

  And now I believe I am to have one.

  It’s a strange feeling I have that makes me want to keep it secret. I do have strange fancies. I think it’s this house because I never had them at Trystan. When I go to the Castle Room I seem to sense Magdalen there and it is as though she is my friend. One doesn’t hear voices—that is probably madness—but the conviction comes into the mind, and while I was sitting doing my needlework—this was when I first suspected that I might be pregnant—the idea came to me that Magdalen was there with me.

  Keep it a secret, she seemed to be telling me. Keep it a secret for as long as you can.

  I had the same feeling too in the chapel. I have to admit I often go to the chapel. I go there to pray, I tell myself, but it is not only that. I feel drawn there. From the first moment I entered it I felt a repulsion and yet a fascination. It is very cold there. It’s because of the stone floor, Meg says. But it seems to me a special sort of coldness. It draws me and repels me.

  It was when I was kneeling at the altar that this conviction came to me.

  Wait … don’t tell, it seemed to say. Keep your secret for as long as you can.

  It is very hard to keep a joyous secret which one wants to shout from the turret tops, yet so strong was the conviction that I have done so … so far.

  Bersaba has been a week at Far Flamstead. I think Richard will be pleased when he returns. He will realize of course that I had to bring her here, for she had lost her home. But I think he liked her being here. He seemed different when she was. He used to enjoy those games they played before the war and I could see how her battle tactics—which I have no doubt were outrageous—used to amuse him. I don’t think he minded her beating him at chess either. I watched him while he was playing and there used to be a faint colour under his skin, and now and then I would see him lift his eyes and look at her.

  We heard from our mother shortly after Bersaba’s arrival. The messenger had taken letters to the farm and finding it destroyed had come on to Flamstead. I was so glad that I received those letters because I could imagine my mother’s distress if the messenger had gone back and told her what he had seen at the farm.

  The West Country was fairly quiet, she wrote. She wished that we were with her. At times like this it was good for families to be together. She wanted news of the babies. She longed to see them but she would be terrified if we attempted to cross the country at such a time. We would understand her anxieties and she knew we would seize every opportunity to send news to her.

  We wrote at once telling her about the disaster at the farm. She already knew of Luke’s death. It would comfort her to know that we were together.

  When the messenger had left we talked and talked about home and our parents, and when we went to our rooms I found Grace there instead of Meg.

  ‘Meg has a headache, my lady,’ said Grace. ‘I said I�
��d come in her place.’

  ‘Poor Meg. She must ask Mrs Cherry for something.’

  ‘She will, my lady, if it gets worse. It is a sorry matter for Mistress Longridge, but happy, I said to Meg, that she be here with you.’

  ‘Yes. I am glad that I am able to have her with me. She has suffered terribly.’

  ‘And it will be good for you to have her here when your time comes, my lady.’

  Grace was watching me intently and I felt the colour rising to my cheeks.

  ‘When … my time comes …’ I repeated foolishly.

  ‘Well, I could be mistook but I don’t think so. I know the signs … It’s being so much with it, you might say.’

  ‘You … know?’

  Grace nodded slowly.

  So my secret was out.

  I wanted to tell Bersaba first so I did that day. She was silent for a while. Then she said: ‘It was when he came home in May.’

  I nodded and noticed that her mouth turned down momentarily and she looked almost angry. I was filled with sympathy, for I guessed she was thinking of Luke,

  Then she smiled and said: ‘You’ll have to take care this time, Angelet.’

  ‘I am determined to.’

  ‘I wonder if it will be a boy,’ she mused. ‘He would like that.’

  Then she talked about how she had waited for the births of Arabella and Lucas and it was very cosy. I was happy because I felt that my state was taking her mind off her own terrible tragedy.

  Because of the war we had very few servants now. There were only the Cherrys, Jesson, Meg and Grace. Jesson managed the stables with two young boys from the village to help him. They weren’t old enough to go to the war, but if it continued I supposed when they were we should lose them.

  This had made a different relationship between us. We were more intimate and Mrs Cherry had become more of a friend than a servant. It might have been because the Royalist cause was being undermined and a great many people were predicting a Parliamentary victory which would have an equalising effect on society.

  She came into my room one day and said I was looking peaky and she had a good pick-me-up tonic. ‘You can’t beat herb-twopence,’ she told me. ‘I’ve always said that was a cure for every ailment under the sun.’

  ‘I’m afraid of taking tonics, Mrs Cherry,’ I said. ‘I want everything to be natural …’

  ‘My patience me,’ she cried, her cherry face wrinkling up with mirth. ‘If herb-twopence ain’t the most natural thing on God’s earth, my name’s not Emmy Cherry. A little dash of it would do you the world of good.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I feel very well indeed. If I look a little wan, it’s nothing.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got to take care of you. You’ve got your sister back again. I reckon she’ll keep her eye on you.’

  ‘I’m sure she will. And she’s experienced too.’

  ‘Then we’ve got Grace. We’re lucky, I reckon that’s what. Does the General know?’ Her eyes were sharp suddenly.

  ‘Not yet. It’s not possible to reach him. We don’t know where he is. This terrible war …’

  ‘So he don’t know yet.’ She shook her head. ‘If you was to be able to get in touch,’ she said, ‘tell him it’ll be all right, will you? Tell him that Cherry and me will see everything’s all right.’

  ‘I will, Mrs Cherry. You’re fond of the General, I know.’

  ‘Well, you might say that was putting it mild like. Cherry thinks the world of him. Served with him. Would be with him now if he was fit and well … like the rest of them. And all the time I’ve been here … well, I’ve got to look on him … more than a mere master.’

  ‘He is a man who inspires great respect.’

  She lowered her eyes to hide her emotion, I guessed. Then she said brightly: ‘Well, if you was feeling a bit under the weather you come to me, my lady. I reckon you won’t be scorning my herb-twopence once you’ve felt its effects.’

  When she left me I went to Bersaba and told her that Mrs Cherry thought I ought to try some of her cures.

  ‘Do you remember Mrs Cherry’s soothing mixture?’ I asked.

  ‘It sent you to sleep, didn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t sleep very well now,’ I told her. ‘Sometimes I have strange dreams. I told you how once I went to the Castle Room and saw a face there … or thought I did. I’m sure I did. It was at night and I took a candle. Mrs Cherry came and found me there. She thought I was walking in my sleep.’

  ‘Were you?’ asked Bersaba.

  ‘No. I’m sure I wasn’t. I saw a light in the castle from my room and then I went up and saw the face. I thought it was Strawberry John … a man I once saw in the woods. But they didn’t believe me any of them, and after that I lost the baby.’

  Bersaba said: ‘And you think the two incidents were connected?’

  ‘They all said so. I had a fright, you see, and that can bring on a miscarriage, can’t it?’

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ said Bersaba. And I told her.

  ‘Did Richard know?’

  ‘Oh yes. He thought with the rest that I’d had a nightmare.’

  ‘It was all connected with the castle. Did he ever talk to you about the castle?’

  ‘No. There are some things one can’t talk about with Richard. He withdraws himself, as it were, so that you know you mustn’t talk about it any more.’

  ‘You should not allow yourself to be dominated, Angelet.’

  ‘You don’t know Richard.’

  She smiled at me, rather tenderly, I thought.

  Then she said: ‘Stop thinking about the castle. Stop thinking about anything but the baby. Just imagine how overjoyed Richard will be when he knows and how happy you will be when you have your little baby to care for.’

  ‘I do try, Bersaba, but then all sorts of thoughts come into my mind. I wonder about Richard, where he is, whether he will ever come back … whether like Luke … and so many others …’

  She gripped my hand so tightly that I winced.

  ‘Don’t,’ she commanded. ‘He’ll come back. I tell you he’ll come back.’

  That was typical of Bersaba. Sometimes she appeared to believe that she could work miracles.

  Then she started to talk about babies and she said we would make the clothes ourselves as we should never have a seamstress in these days.

  It is wonderful having Bersaba with me.

  It was hot that August. The wasps were thick around the plum trees; the children were tanned by the sun; we could always hear Arabella’s imperious voice above the rest. When I watched them at play I would forget the war, forget my fears for Richard, forget everything but that early next year my child would be born.

  For days I lived in contentment and then I awoke one night in a state of uneasiness. I couldn’t explain what it was but it was just a strong sense of warning. It was almost as though something was warning me of danger, and the first person I thought of on waking was Magdalen—Richard’s first wife.

  It may have been because she had been in the house as I had expecting a child as I was; and then she had died. Deep within me I suppose there was a fear here that because it had happened to her it could happen to me. But why? It was something in the manner of Mrs Cherry and Cherry (although he was a man of very few words), of Jesson, Grace and Meg … Yes, the attitude of every one of them had changed towards me since it had become known that I was to have a child. It was almost as though they were watching me, looking for a sign of something.

  I got out of bed and went to the window. I couldn’t see the castle because I was in the Blue Room. I had not wanted to go to the bedchamber I had shared with Richard; this was more cosy. Bersaba was in the Lavender Room, very close, and all the children slept in a room with Phoebe which was immediately next to hers—so we were all together. I looked out on the peaceful lawns and thought of what had happened to Longridge Farm and how at any moment soldiers could advance and lay waste my home.

  But it was not such thoughts which made
me uneasy. It was something that overshadowed me alone—it was a personal fear which of course is so much more frightening than those which are shared by others.

  I went to the Lavender Room and, opening the door, looked in. Bersaba was asleep. She lay on her back with her hair falling on to the pillow, showing clearly the scars on her forehead. She had always tried to disguise them, but they had not prevented Luke’s falling in love with her and loving her in his Puritan way much more fervently than Richard had ever loved me. How odd that Luke, a Puritan, should love like that. But was it something in Bersaba?

  I turned away and quietly opened the door of the nursery. Moonlight showed me Arabella and Lucas on their child’s pallets and Phoebe sleeping quietly with little Thomas in his crib.

  All was well. Why should I have awakened with these fears on me? And as I stood there I knew that I was being watched and I felt my nerves tingling just as they had that night in the Castle Room when I had thought a ghost was behind me and had turned to find it was Mrs Cherry.

  I felt limp with terror and afraid to turn round. Then I heard Bersaba laugh softly.

  ‘Angel, what are you doing?’

  ‘Oh!’ I turned and there she was, my sister, her eyes wide with something like amusement. ‘I … I couldn’t sleep,’ I stammered.

  ‘You’ll catch cold wandering about like that.’

  ‘It’s a warm night, and what of you?’

  ‘You came and looked at me.’

  ‘So you were awake?’

  ‘Not completely. But I looked up and there was my sister looking at me in a very odd sort of manner.’

  ‘What did you mean an odd sort of manner …?’

  ‘As if you … suspected me of something. Do you?’

  ‘What should I suspect you of?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You say strange things, Bersaba.’

  ‘Mrs Cherry is an old gossip,’ said Bersaba. ‘Has she been talking to you?’

  ‘Well, only to offer me herb-twopence. She seems concerned about me.’