These thoughts I could not explain to anybody, and when Grace and Meg kept telling me that I should soon have another, I could not help dwelling rather morbidly on the necessary preliminaries.
I wondered whether I was unusual, but I didn’t think so. I had heard it said by married ladies, whispering together, that it was a woman’s duty to submit to her husband’s needs, however uncomfortable and distasteful this might be; and I knew now what they meant.
I was certainly depressed, and I thought more and more of Trystan Priory, and it occurred to me that what I wanted more than anything now was to see my sister.
I told myself I could talk to her. There was a good deal she would not understand, of course. How could she, an unmarried girl and a virgin? But still I should find some comfort in talking.
Then Richard returned home.
He was solicitous and very concerned because of what had happened.
He seemed taller and more remote than I had been imagining him, and was a little embarrassed with me, not knowing how to tell me of his affection.
For one thing I was grateful. He said I must be strong again before we thought of having another child, because what had happened, although so early in my pregnancy and therefore not dangerous to me, might well have weakened me. And we must take no risks.
During that first week of his return I slept in the Blue Room, so called because of its furnishings, which was on the same landing as our own bedchamber.
‘You will find it more restful to sleep alone,’ was his comment. ‘Just at first,’ he added.
How grateful I was.
I hoped that he did not sense my relief, but I feared I could not hide it.
Of course I told him of the night before my miscarriage, how I had seen the lights and thought I had glimpsed Strawberry John on the battlements. I saw his face whiten and I could not understand the expression in his eyes. His mouth was tight, angry, I thought it.
‘Could you have imagined it?’ he asked, almost pleadingly, I thought.
‘No,’ I said vehemently. ‘I was fully awake and in possession of my senses. I saw the light, heard something, and there was no doubt that it was a face up there.’
‘And you recognized that face?’
‘Yes—well, I’m not absolutely sure. The light wasn’t good. But I had seen this Strawberry John in the woods near the castle.’
‘I wonder if it is possible,’ he said. ‘I shall discover.’
I said: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to demolish the castle?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘But if it is dangerous and people can get in?’
‘People cannot get in. I don’t understand this. It was unfortunate, but I shall look into the matter. You should never have left your bed and gone up to investigate. It was foolish.’
‘It seemed natural. After all, I wanted to know what was going on in my home.’
‘I will see this Strawberry John at the first opportunity, and if by chance you saw him, I must ask you not to be afraid if by some chance you should do so again. If you do, come to me at once. I shall take the necessary steps. I do not wish you to attempt to investigate without telling me. Please remember that, Angelet.’
It was a command, spoken in a stern voice. So he must talk to his soldiers, I thought.
‘It is a painful subject,’ he went on. ‘Your wanderings in the night in all probability have lost the child. You must take care in future. Perhaps it would be better if you came to Whitehall and stayed in London for a while.’
I was silent. A terrible depression had come over me and I could not shake it off.
Then began the evenings when he brought out the soldiers and made a battlefield. He did not always involve me in this; and sometimes he would go to the library and become deeply immersed in some of the books there. We had the occasional game of chess, but I was afraid my game had not improved and I knew that there was little excitement for him in our battles over the board.
I knew too that soon he would be back with me in the red-curtained bed.
One day he said to me: ‘You are not really happy, Angelet. Tell me, what would make you so?’
I answered promptly: ‘Perhaps if I could see my sister. We have been together all our lives until I came to London. I miss her very much.’
‘Why should she not come to visit us?’
‘Do you think I might ask her?’
‘By all means do so.’
So that day I wrote to Bersaba.
‘Do come, Bersaba. It seems so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to talk to you about. I miss you and Mother terribly, but if you could come it would be a wonderful help to me. Bersaba, I need you here. You are stronger now. Are you strong enough for the journey? I do hope so and I do believe you will want to come when I tell you how much I need you.’
I read the letter through when I had written it. It sounded like a cry for help.
BERSABA
Escape from the Grave
I AM CHANGED. IT is no use their telling me I am not. I have come near to death, and only by a miracle—which was brought about through the assiduous care of my mother and Phoebe—have I survived. This terrible disease has set its mark on me. Who ever heard of anyone who escaped unscathed? I know that either my mother or Phoebe remained at my bedside through day and night, and not once did they sleep while they were there, but they took it in turns to spend the long nights with me.
It is because of this that I am not completely disfigured. On my brows there are one or two of those horrible scars, more on my neck, one on my left cheek, but my mother and Phoebe saved me from the worst, and there are few who have suffered the dreadful disease and come through it who show as few signs as I do. My mother bound my hands to my sides that I might not in my sleep touch the hateful sores; they watched over me; they bathed me in special oils made by my mother and learned from hers; they fed me broth and milk and beef tea, and they would not let me see myself in a mirror until they were sure that the disfiguration was going to be slight.
Although I was grateful that it is, I cannot pretend I am the same. I have grown thin and my eyes seem too big for my face. My mother says it has not impaired my looks, but I often ask myself if it is truth or mother love which makes her see me so.
For months even after the infection had left me I was conscious of a lassitude. I did not want to do anything but lie on my bed and read, and sometimes brood and ask fate why this had had to happen to me.
When my mother first told me that she had sent Angelet away I was relieved, because I knew that everyone in the household ran the risk of taking the disease which I had brought in from the midwife. Afterwards I began to feel a little resentful. It seemed unfair that Angelet should be having gay adventures while I should have this fearful one. But when Phoebe came into my room, her eyes round with adoration, I felt better, for there is no doubt that to Phoebe I am a mixture of saint and Amazon—a goddess of power and virtue. I like that, for my nature is one that revels in admiration. I suppose most people like it, but my love of it is inordinate. That was why I always wanted to score over Angelet. Now she is married to a very important man, it seems—a General in the King’s army—and my mother says that he is well known to people who have called at the house, and they think that Angelet has made a very good match indeed.
And it is all because of what happened to me, for if I had not contracted this disease, both Angelet and I would be here in Trystan Priory and since we had passed our eighteenth birthdays my mother would have been bestirring herself to get us husbands. Who would have believed that Angelet would find her own!