"We thought it was a heaven-sent opportunity," my father mildly reminded her.
I knew that was true, and for once my mother could not deny it.
"They're going right back to the old ways," she said. "It seems the war did nothing at all."
"That is the way with most wars," said my father sadly.
My mother ignored that.
"The King was executed," she said. "That was meant to be an example, and the Lord Protector brought the country to God. And now it is going back, back to what it was before ... and by the look of it, it's even worse. They say the new King does not lead a good life."
"He is very popular," my father reminded her, "and the people without doubt want him back."
"The people do not know what is good for them. They do not understand."
What my father understood all too well was that it was not only unwise but useless to carry on such an argument with my mother, so he said nothing more.
As for me, I liked the change. It exhilarated me, gave me a feeling of expectation. I thought it was wonderful to see people happy and not afraid to laugh. As for The Family, they certainly lost no time in reverting to the old ways before the coming of the Protectorate.
Sir Henry and Lady Willerton went to London. Their son Rufus had returned with the King, and came back to the parental home for a brief visit. He was a very grand gentleman in long wide breeches trimmed with lace. His hat was adorned with magnificent feathers, and he wore a wig, the curls of which hung about his shoulders. I imagined he was with the court, for he did not stay long at Willerton.
Maria was very excited and loved to tell me all about it.
"Rufus is with the King," she said. "He is having the most wonderful time. He will find a place for me at court, he promises."
It was two years after the King had returned when we heard that he was to be married. His bride came from Portugal. She was Catherine of Braganza, and my mother thought it was not a good match, for the bride was a Catholic. It should not have been allowed, she said. She was really uneasy about the King.
"He is very popular," insisted my father.
"Popular! If all accounts are right, he seems to be ... profligate."
"You cannot rely on gossip," said my father.
Maria had already told me that the gossip about the King's life was based on a firm foundation. He made little attempt to hide the fact that Lady Castlemaine was his mistress, and that lady made certain that there was no doubt of it.
"The poor little Queen is very sad about it," Maria told me, "and although the King tries to be kind to her, he is so bemused by my Lady Castlemaine that he insists on her being one of those ladies close to the Queen, which of course means that he is never far from the lady."
"That does not seem to me to be very kind," I commented.
"No, but everyone likes him and is on his side. People make excuses for him. He is so charming. Lady Castlemaine is very beautiful, and the Queen ... well, no one could call her attractive. It's natural, they say, and Oliver Cromwell is no longer here to make us feel we must not enjoy life."
When Maria was seventeen, the governess left and there was no longer an excuse for my going to Willerton as I had in the past, but Maria and I remained friends and, like her parents, she paid little attention to the difference in our station, and I was always welcome there. She liked to talk to me about the life which would be hers when she went to court, and of the people who now visited the house. I used to slip into the schoolroom and wait for her, and if she did not come I would go home. No members of the household took any notice of me when they saw me going up and down the stairs which led to the schoolroom. Thus I had a window on to another world, and watching those people became one of the great pleasures of my life at that time. I was, in fact, rather pleased when Maria was not there and I could observe alone.
It was due to this state of affairs that I had my first encounter with Kitty Carslake.
I knew there were guests at the house, and that the early afternoon was a time when many of them would be resting. I would slip into the house, up the stairs to the schoolroom and my vantage point at the window, and watch any who came into the garden. Perhaps Maria would join me, but now that she was seventeen she was often with the guests and was finding less and less time for me.
In the shrubbery there was a spot which I called the Dell. I had been attracted to it from the first. It was a little square shut in by the bushes. A gap in them made an entrance and was not very noticeable unless one knew where it was. There was an aura of privacy which appealed to me. I often sat there, for there was a convenient overturned treetrunk which served well as a seat.
One day, when I was speeding past the Dell, to my surprise I heard someone there speaking. I could not hear what was said, so I paused. It must, I supposed, be some of the guests. I did not want to be seen, for I had a notion that if my presence was commented on I might be prevented from coming. I listened.
To my surprise, it seemed that there was only one voice ... a very musical one. I could not hear exactly what was being said, but it sounded as though this voice was reciting poetry. I crept closer. I was very near to the entrance of the Dell.
It was one of the softest and most mellow voices that I had ever heard.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet ...
The voice stopped suddenly.
"Who's there?" it asked.
I stood very still. My impulse was to run, to hide if I could, but the owner of the voice would see me sprinting across the lawn and there was no place to hide.
She came out of the Dell and saw me. I looked at her in amazement. She was the woman I had gazed at from the house. She looked more beautiful than when I had first seen her. Her hair fell loose about her shoulders, and her face was flushed.
She said: "Who are you? You are not the daughter ..."
"No," I said. "I am Sarah Standish. I was coming to see Maria."
She started to laugh. She said accusingly: "You were listening."
"It was lovely," I told her. "I knew it. We did Romeo and Juliet the year before Miss Grey went. It did not sound quite like that when we read it ... though the words were the same."
That made her laugh again. She was very friendly and not in the least upset because I had eavesdropped.
"I was perusing my lines," she said. "I am an actress, Kitty Carslake. I shall be on the stage in three days' time."
"How very exciting that must be."
"Do you think so?"
"I think it must be one of the most wonderful things in the world to be an actress."
"Stagestruck, are you?"
I looked at her in puzzlement.
She went on: "You'd be surprised how many people are, especially now that the theaters are flourishing again and for the first time women are allowed to appear on the stage. It is not always easy, you know. But one has one's moments. I tell you, I'm in a state of panic already, and it will be worse when the time comes nearer."
"You mean about playing the part? You seemed to be doing it beautifully."
"Others might not be as kind as you are."
"I wasn't thinking of being kind. I was only saying what I thought."
She smiled at me, then she laughed again.
"You must have wondered what sort of person you would find talking to herself and hiding herself away to do it."
"I thought there was someone with you, and that I should have to be careful lest I was seen."
"Should you not have been seen?"
"Well, I suppose it does not matter very much, but I always wonder whether I should be here. I am not one of them, you know. My father manages the estate."