She obviously though we had lost our way and were asking for instructions.
“We have come from the Black Boar,” said Harriet.
She smiled. “And you are not sure of the road. Where do you want to go?”
I said: “Could I have a word with you?” She changed colour slightly. “You must come in,” she said.
We tethered our horses by the mounting block and followed her into the hall which I remembered so well.
“I will send for refreshment,” she said. “I am sure you would like to rest awhile before you continue your journey.” A servant appeared from behind the screens and she said, “Bring wine and cakes, Emily. To the winter parlour.”
And so within ten minutes, during which we had made conversation mainly about the weather and the state of the roads, wine was brought with wine cakes. Then the door was firmly shut and she was looking at us expectantly.
“You have brought a message for me?” she said.
Harriet was looking at me and I said: “No, there is no message. I was wondering if you could give me some information. I am a friend of Lord Hessenfield.”
She looked alarmed. “All is not well?” she asked.
“I believe nothing to have gone wrong,” I said.
“What we want to know”—Harriet could not stop coming forward, for what she hated was to play what she called a standby role—“is, did he reach his destination safely?”
“You mean … when he left here?”
“Yes,” I said. “That is what we mean.”
“But that is weeks ago. They had a rough crossing but made it in safety.”
“And they are now with the King?”
She nodded. “You must tell me who you are,” she said.
“Friends of Lord Hessenfield,” said Harriet firmly, and I could see that we had been accepted as workers in the Jacobite cause.
“I was with them when they brought the General here,” I said. “What we should have done without your house I cannot think.”
“It was a small thing to do,” she said. “We ran no risks. We just went away with the servants for a week. That was all.”
“It was our salvation,” I said. “But we must not stay. I just wanted to meet you.”
She filled up the wine and we drank to the King, which meant James the Second, not William the Third. Then we told her we were going back to the Black Boar.
She walked with us to our horses, and as we rode away Harriet said: “Well done, my little Jacobite. I am sure the good lady thinks there is some significance in our visit. As good Jacobites we should have known that Hessenfield is safe at St. Germain-en-Laye. The lady was a little puzzled, methinks.”
“You certainly think up the wildest things to do. You’re a lady of intrigue.”
“Well, what was that? Just a little exercise in deception of the mildest kind. I wonder how many Jacobites there are in this country, all waiting for the moment, eh? At least we know Hessenfield and his merry men made it safely. They are now at St. Germain planning fresh moves, I’ll warrant.”
I felt a great relief because he was safe.
Preparing for the birth of a baby was a new and enthralling experience.
As the weeks passed into months I became more and more absorbed by it, and when I was aware of the life within me I thought of little else but the time when my child should be born.
In September, four months after my child’s conception, news was brought to us that King James had died at St. Germain-en-Laye. There was a good deal of talk then and I remember Gregory’s saying that this would not be an end of the Jacobite movement. James had a son who would be considered the rightful heir.
“Poor James,” said Harriet, “what a sad life he had! His own daughters to turn against him. They say he felt it deeply.”
“He did not want to return to England and to his throne,” said Benjie. “To become a Jesuit as he did meant that he had finished with the world.”
I wondered what effect his death would have on Hessenfield, and I guessed that his efforts would not cease. He had a new pretender to replace the old one, and I wondered then if he would ever come to England and what his feelings would be if he knew I had borne him a child.
James was buried with honours and his body placed in the monasteries of the Benedictines in Paris and his heart sent to the nunnery at Chaillot. Most significant of all Louis the Fourteenth, the French King, had caused the young Prince to be declared King of England, Scotland and Ireland as James the Third.
There was much talk about this and as there were rumours that the health of our King William was not very good a certain speculation was growing up everywhere. Even the servants talked of it and, I believed, took sides.
To show his disapproval William recalled his ambassador from the French Court and ordered the French ambassador to return to France.
The next we heard was that England had entered into an alliance against France. This was called the Grand Alliance; it looked as though war might be imminent. This was not concerned with bringing back James but the Spanish Succession and the threat of war was disturbing, but through it all I remained wrapped up in the thoughts of my child.
At Christmas my mother and Leigh came to Eyot Abbass with Damaris.
My mother was very eager to hear how I was and she had brought garments and advice about the baby. She was determined, she said, to stay until my child was born and nothing was going to shift her. She said this almost defiantly, thinking of Harriet, I was sure, which was absurd really for Harriet had no desire to usurp her position as a mother. My mother would never understand Harriet. This ridiculous rivalry had only grown through me, I believed. Before my birth she must have felt much the same towards her as I did since she had gone to her for advice.
We had the usual Christmas festivities. I was getting large at that time, having only two months to go.
And on a bleak February day my child was born.
It was a strong healthy girl.
As I held my child in my arms I marvelled that out of that encounter, which had been so closely concerned with death, life should have come. A new life.
“What shall you call her?” asked my mother gloating over the child.
“I have decided to call her Clarissa,” I said.
DAMARIS
The Cellar Of Good Mrs. Brown
I SUPPOSE ALL MY life I have been overshadowed by Carlotta. She is seven years older than I, which gives her a certain advantage, but age has nothing to do with it. Carlotta is herself, and as such the most fascinating person I have ever met.
People turn to look at her when she comes into a room. It is as though the desire to do so is irresistible. Nobody could understand it better than I because I feel this deeply and always have. She is of course startlingly beautiful with that dark curling hair and those deep blue eyes; if one is the sister of such a creature one is immediately dubbed plain merely by comparison. I don’t doubt that if I had not had Carlotta for a sister I should have passed as quite a pleasant-looking, ordinary sort of girl; but there was Carlotta, and I became accustomed to hearing people refer to “the beauty.” I quickly accepted this and I didn’t mind nearly as much as my mother thought I might. I was one of Carlotta’s worshippers too. I loved to watch those deep-set eyes half closed so that the incredibly long dark lashes spread fanlike on her palish skin; then her eyes would open and if she were angry flash with blue fire. Her skin was pale but with a certain glow. It reminded me of flower petals. It was the same colour and texture. I was pink and white with straight brown hair which did not curl very easily and never stayed where I wanted it to. My eyes seemed to have no definite colour; I used to say they were water colour. “They are like you,” Carlotta once said. “They have no colour of their own. They take colour from whatever is close. You’re like that, Damaris. The good girl. ‘Yes, Yes, Yes,’ you say to everything. You never have an opinion that is not given to you by someone else.” Carlotta could be cruel sometimes, particularly when someone or something had annoyed her. She liked to take her revenge on whoever was near—and that was often myself. “You’re such a good girl,” was her constant complaint, and she made it sound as if goodness was a despicable thing to be.