Whenever he could, John sent her a message, always saying that he would join her as soon as possible. Once he mentioned, briefly, that Rose Lawn still held. But her home, her parents, the Earl of Radclyffe, seemed almost unreal to her now. Her life was absorbed in the farmhouse, in her new friends and the little village of Marygreen, in her thoughts and dreams of John—and most of all in the tiny creature her body carried. Now that her worries and apprehensions were over, now that she was thought to be—and almost thought herself—as respectable a married woman as any of them, she grew happier and prettier by the day. Pregnancy became her well. But she was eager for the day when she would bear John his first son; never once did it occur to her that the child might be a girl.
She was beginning to move restlessly, conscious of painful cramps in the muscles of her arms and legs. She could see only dimly now, as if she had her eyes opened under water. And though she could not tell how much time had gone by, Sarah was still working, kneading her belly with capable strong fingers, her face strained and wet.
I must tell her to stop, thought Judith drowsily. She looks so tired.
She heard the baby squalling and remembered again that it was a girl. I’ve never even thought of a name for her. What shall I call her? Judith—or Anne—or perhaps it should be Sarah—
And then she said softly, “Sarah—I think I’ll name her Amber —for the colour of her father’s eyes—”
She became aware of the other women nearby, of a bustle and stir in the room, and now one of them leaned down to lay a warm cloth across her forehead, at the same time removing another which had grown cool. Blankets had been piled on her, but still her face was cold and wet and she could feel moisture on her fingers. Her ears were ringing and the feeling of dizziness came again, swooping down and whirling her up and away until she saw nothing but a hazy blur, heard only a confused murmurous babble.
And then as she moved slightly, trying to ease the cramps that knotted again and again in her legs, Sarah suddenly put her face in her hands and began to sob. Without an instant’s hesitation another woman bent and began to work, firmly kneading and massaging.
“Sarah—Please, Sarah—” whispered Judith, full of pity for her.
Very slowly and with great effort she drew her hand from where it lay at her side under the blankets and raised it toward her. As she did so she saw that the palm and fingers were smeared with wet blood. For a moment she stared at it dreamily, without comprehension, and then all at once she understood why she had had such a strange sense of comfort, as though she lay in a warm bath. Her eyes widened with horror and she gave a sharp cry of pleading and protest.
“Sarah!”
Sarah dropped to her knees, her face contorted with grief.
“Sarah! Sarah, help me! I don’t want to die!”
The other women were sobbing wildly but Sarah, gaining control of herself again, forced a smile. “It’s nothing, Judith. You mustn’t be frightened. A little blood is nothing—” But the next moment her features twisted with unbearable anguish and she was crying, unable to control herself any longer.
For several seconds Judith stared at her bowed head and shaking shoulders, full of wild, angry, helpless resentment, terrified. I can’t be dying! she thought. I can’t! I don’t want to die! I want to live!
She tried to speak to Sarah again, to beg for help—to demand it—Sarah! Sarah—don’t let me die—But she heard no words, she could not even tell if her lips formed them.
And then slowly she began to drift, floating back into some warm pleasant world where there was no fear of death, where she and John would meet again. She could see nothing at all now, and she let her eyes close—the ringing in her ears had shut out every other sound. She was no longer struggling; she drifted willingly, suffused with so intolerable a tiredness that she welcomed this promise of relief. And then all at once she could hear again, loud and clear, the sound of her daughter’s cries. They were repeated over and over, but grew steadily fainter, fading away, until at last she heard them no more.
PART I
1660
CHAPTER ONE
MARYGREEN DID NOT change in sixteen years. It had changed little enough in the past two hundred.
The church of St. Catherine stood at the northern end of the road, like a benevolent godfather, and from it the houses ran down either side—half-timbered cottages, with overhanging upper stories, and thatched with heather or with straw that had been golden when new, then had turned slowly to a rich brown, and now was emerald green with moss and lichen. Tiny dormer windows looked out, wreathed with honeysuckle and ivy. Thick untrimmed hedges fenced the houses off from the road and there were small wooden gates, some of them spanned by arches of climbing roses. Above the hedges could be seen the confusion of blooming flowers, delphinium and lilacs, both purple and white, hollyhocks that reached almost to the eaves, an apple or plum or cherry tree in full blossom.
At the far end from the church was the green, where on festive occasions the young men played football and held wrestling matches and all the village danced.
There was an inn built of soft red brick and showing the aged silver-grey oaken timbers of its frame; a great sign painted with a crude golden lion swung out over the street on an elaborate wrought-iron arm. Nearby was the blacksmith’s cottage with his adjoining shop and the homes and places of business of the apothecary, the carpenter, and another tradesman or two. The rest of the cottages were occupied by husbandmen who divided their time between working on their own small holdings and on the large neighbouring farms. For there was no manor or squire’s estate near Marygreen, and the economic existence of the village depended upon the well-to-do yeomen farmers.
The day was quiet and warm, the sky blue with long streaks of white clouds, which seemed to have been put there by a paintbrush drawn across wet water-colour; the air was full of spring moisture and a rich loamy smell of damp earth. Chickens and geese and tiny sparrows had taken possession of the road. A little girl stood before one of the gates, holding a pet rabbit in her arms.
There were few people in sight, for it was late afternoon and each person had his own work to do, so that the only idlers were dogs, a playful kitten or two, and children too young to have learned a useful task. A woman with a basket on her arm walked along the street, pausing for a few moments to talk to another housewife, who threw open an upstairs casement window and leaned out, surrounded as though in a frame with wandering clematis and morning glories. Grouped about the village cross, which had somehow escaped Cromwell’s soldiers, were eight or ten young girls—cottagers’ daughters who were sent every day to watch their parents’ cattle on the common and make sure that no single goat, cow, or sheep should stray or be stolen.
Some of the younger ones were playing “How many miles to Babylon?”—but the three oldest girls talked among themselves, full of indignation and bad humour. With hands on their hips they glared across the common to where two young men, thumbs hooked awkwardly in their breeches, shifting their weight from one foot to another, stood deep in conversation with someone who apparently upset their not too well established poise. But their combined bulk hid whoever it was from view.
“That Amber St. Clare!” muttered the eldest girl with a furious toss of her long blonde hair. “If ever there’s a man about, you may be sure she’ll come along! I think she can smell ’em out!”
“She should ’ve been married and bedded a year ago—that’s what my mother says!”