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.