"When I marry I should like to be married in this church," said Francine.
We sat in the pews. We knelt on the prayer mats. We stood in awe before the altar.
"It's beautiful," said Francine.
Mr. Counsell reminded us of passing time and we went back to the inn and from there to the station, where the train took us to Preston Carstairs.
When we arrived there a carriage was waiting for us. It had an elaborate crest on it. Francine nudged me. "The Ewell crest," she murmured. "Ours."
Relief now sat on Mr. Counsell's homely features. He had delivered his charges safely.
Francine was looking excited, but, just as in my case, the apprehension was beginning to take hold. It was all very well to joke about the prison when it was miles away. It was a different matter when you were within an hour of being incarcerated.
A stern-faced coachman was waiting for us.
"Mr. Counsell, sir," he said, "is these the young ladies?"
"Yes," answered Mr. Counsell.
"The carriage is here, sir."
He was studying us and as was to be expected his eyes rested on Francine. She was wearing a simple grey cloak, which had been our mother's, and on her head was a straw hat with a marguerite in the centre and ribbons under the chin. It was simple attire but Francine could never look anything but enchanting. His eyes scanned me and then he was back to Francine.
"Better get in, young ladies," he said.
The horses' hoofs rang out on the road as we skimmed along past green hedges, through leafy lanes until we came to a wrought-iron gateway. The gates were opened immediately by a boy who touched his forelock to the carriage and then we were bowling up a drive. The carriage stopped before a lawn and we alighted.
We stood together, my sister and I, hand in hand, and I knew that even Francine was overawed. There it stood, the house which our father had spoken of so vehemently as the prison. It was huge and grey stone as its name implied and there were embattled turrets at either end. I noticed the battlements and the lofty archway through which I could see a courtyard. It was very grand, awe-inspiring, and it filled me with apprehension.
Francine pressed my hand firmly, holding it very tightly as though she took courage from the contact, and together we walked across the grass towards a great door which had swung open. A woman in a starched cap was standing there. The coach had gone forward under the archway into the courtyard and the woman stood in the doorway watching us.
"The master is ready to see you as soon as you arrive, Mr. Counsell," she said.
"Come along." Mr. Counsell smiled reassuringly at us and we went forward towards the door.
I shall never forget stepping inside that house. I was quivering with excitement, which was really a mingling of apprehension and curiosity. The ancestral home! I thought. And then: The Prison.
Those thick stone walls, the coolness as we stepped inside, the awesomeness of the great hall with its vaulted roof, the stone floor and walls on which glittered weapons presumably used by long-dead Ewells—they thrilled me and yet made me fearful in some way. Our footsteps sounded noisy so I tried to walk quietly. I saw that Francine had lifted her head and was putting on that bold look which meant that she was a little more apprehensive than she would like people to know.
"The master said you were to go straight to him," the woman repeated. She was rather plump with greying hair very tightly drawn back from her forehead and all but concealed by her white cap. Her eyes were small, her lips tightly shut, like a trap. She seemed to suit the house.
"If you'll step this way, sir," she said to Mr. Counsell.
She turned and we followed her to the grand staircase, which we ascended. Francine was still holding my hand. We went along a gallery and paused before a door. The woman knocked and a voice said, "Enter."
We did so. The scene remained imprinted on my mind forever. I was vaguely aware of a darkish room with heavy draperies and large, dark pieces of furniture, but it was my grandfather who dominated the room. He was seated there in a chair like a throne and he himself looked like a biblical prophet. He was clearly a very big man; his arms were folded across his chest and what struck me immediately was his long, luxuriant beard, which rippled over his chest and concealed the lower part of his face. Beside him sat a woman, middle-aged and colourless. I guessed she was our Aunt Grace. She looked small, ineffectual and modest, but perhaps that was in comparison with the imposing central figure.
"So you have brought my granddaughters, Mr. Counsell," said my grandfather. "Come here."
This last was addressed to us and Francine advanced, taking me with her.
"H'm," said my grandfather, his eyes surveying us intently, giving me the impression that he was trying to find fault with us. What astonished me was that he seemed unimpressed by Francine's charm.
I had thought he might have kissed us or at least taken our hands. Instead he just looked at us as though there was something rather distasteful about us.
"I am your grandfather," he said, "and this is now your home. I hope you will be worthy of it. I doubt not that you will have much to learn. You are now in a civilized community. It will be well for you to remember that."
"We have always been in a civilized community," said Francine.
There was silence. I saw the woman seated beside my grandfather flinch.
"I would disagree with that," he said.
"Then you would be wrong," went on Francine. She was very nervous, I could see, but she sensed in his remarks a slur on our father and she was not going to tolerate that. She had immediately transgressed against the first rule of the house, which was that our grandfather was never wrong, and he was so startled that for a moment he was lost for words.
Then he spoke coldly: "Indeed you have much to learn. I had expected we might have to deal with uncouth manners. Well, we are prepared. Now the first thing to do is to give thanks to our Maker for your safe journey and we will express the hope that those of us in need of humility and gratitude will be granted these virtues, and will follow that course of righteousness which is the only one acceptable in this house."
We were bewildered. Francine was still smarting with her indignation and I was growing more depressed and afraid every moment.
And there we were, tired, hungry, bewildered and desperately apprehensive, kneeling on the cold floor in that dark room, giving thanks to God for bringing us to this prison and praying for the humility and gratitude which our grandfather expected us to feel to him for the miserable home he was giving us.
It was Aunt Grace who took us to our room. Poor Aunt Grace! When we referred to her it was always poor Aunt Grace. She looked drained of life; she was extremely thin and the brown cotton of her dress accentuated the sallowness of her complexion. Her hair, which might have been beautiful, was drawn straight back from her brow and plaited into a rather unwieldy knob in the nape of her neck; her eyes were pleasant, nothing could alter that. They were brown with abundant dark lashes—rather like Francine's except for the colour—only where my sister's sparkled, hers were dull and hopeless. Hopeless! That was the term one immediately applied to Aunt Grace.