The love child

The Price of a Life

CHRISTABEL AND I ARRIVED back at Eversleigh in time for that Christmas of 1682. I had stayed for two weeks with Harriet, but could not in reason stay longer; and to tear myself away from my child—even though I knew she would receive the best of care—was heartbreaking.

I was certain that Carlotta was an exceptional child. Christabel might smile benignly when I mentioned the fact, but Harriet agreed with me wholeheartedly. My baby really took notice of what was going on, had a definite will of her own and was ready to scream until she was blue in the face until she obtained what she wanted.

I was with her constantly during those two weeks with Harriet, but I knew I had to go. To be parted from my daughter from time to time was the price I had to pay for my unconventional behaviour.

My mother welcomed me warmly.

“How could you stay so long away from us!” she said reproachfully. “Let me look at you. You’ve grown thinner. You’ve grown up.”

“Dear Mother, did you expect me to remain a child forever?”

“And to have travelled so far and lived abroad so long! You will miss all that now you are home. I suppose Harriet will want to be off again shortly. She was always a wanderer. It’s amusing about the baby. I’ll swear she wasn’t very pleased when she first discovered her condition.”

“Harriet loves Carlotta dearly. Oh, Mother, she is the most lovely little girl.”

“One would expect Harriet to have a beautiful daughter. If she is only half as good-looking as her mother she will be the toast of the Court.”

“She is going to be a beauty, I am sure.”

“She seems to have charmed you, at any rate. Come into the house. Oh, Cilla, it is good to have you home.”

I wanted to say it was good to be home, but it wasn’t. No place could be good unless Carlotta was in it.

I told my mother that Harriet had suggested Sally Nullens go over to Eyot Abbas as nurse to the baby.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “Sally will be mad with joy. She’s been going round like a shepherd who has lost her sheep ever since Carl escaped from the nursery.”

“Shall I go and tell her right away?”

“Do. There’s no point in withholding such good news.”

I went up to Sally’s sitting room. It was just as it had been before I went away. She was sitting watching the kettle which was beginning to sing and was close on boiling; and Emily Philpots was with her. They looked startled to see me and I thought they had aged a little since I last saw them.

“Well, if it’s not Miss Priscilla,” said Emily.

“Back from foreign parts,” added Sally. “Why people want to go off like that I can’t make out, and to bring a little baby into that sort of place … it’s likely to affect it for the rest of its life. It’s heathen, nothing more.”

“I am sure you will soon make a nice little Christian of her, Sally,” I said.

There was a hint in my words which made her perk up her ears. She looked at me rather breathlessly. Babies were to Sally Nullens what lovers were to romantic young ladies.

I said quickly: “Lady Stevens suggested to me that you might be prepared to go over to the Abbas and look after her child. I thought it was a good idea.”

Sally’s nose had turned slightly pink at the tip. I heard her whisper something like “a dear little baby.”

“Would you consider going, Sally?”

It was an unnecessary question. I could see that in her mind she was already getting the nursery together.

She pretended to consider. “A girl, is it?”

“The most beautiful little girl in the world, Sally.”

“I never cared much for beauties,” said Emily Philpots. “They give themselves airs.” I could see by the way she screwed up her face that Emily was growing sick with envy. She was seeing a dark future when she hadn’t even Sally Nullens to complain to.

I was overwhelmed with pity for them suddenly. I thought how sad it must be to be old and unwanted.

“The child is going to need a governess, too,” I said. “I believe a child cannot begin to learn too early.”

“It’s true,” agreed Emily Philpots fervently, the red colour suffusing her face by now. “Children need the guiding hand even before they can walk.”

“I think it is very likely that Lady Stevens will ask you to go along with Sally to the Abbas.”

“Well, I never!” cried Sally, beginning to rock vigorously in the rocking chair which she always used. “A little baby again.”

“May I write to Lady Stevens, and tell her that you accept, Sally?” I asked. “At the same time I’ll suggest that Mistress Philpots goes with you.”

Happiness had suddenly arrived in that room. I could tell its presence by pink-tipped noses, watery eyes and the squeak of the rocking chair.

Life was unsatisfactory. The periods I looked forward to were those when I could go to Eyot Abbas. Naturally I could not go too frequently. Even going as I did aroused comment.

Harriet contrived that I should see Carlotta as much as possible; she visited us and stayed for quite a long time. Sally Nullens was already installed in the nursery and Emily Philpots was there too, fussing over the baby’s clothes and adorning all her garments with the most exquisite stitching.

Carlotta had soon become aware of her importance. As she lay in her cradle, kicking a little and smiling contentedly, she was like a monarch receiving her courtiers, and she would look with what must surely have been a certain complacency on the adoring throng who gazed down at her in rapture. Benjie was her devoted slave and worshipped with the rest. He thought it was exciting to have a little sister and he was very glad because his mother was home again. Gregory doted on her and I believed that Harriet had willed him to think the child really was his. Harriet continued to play the proud mother and Sally Nullens looked younger every day and grew more and more aggressive towards the rest of us, declaring, “I’m not having my baby kept from her rest!” and trying to shoo people out. Oddly enough, almost as though she had some extra sense, she never tried to turn me out of the nursery. She said it was as pretty as a picture to see me sitting there petting the baby. Mistress Carlotta had taken a real fancy to me, she told me. “And that’s something with Mistress Imperious, I can tell you!” Then there was Emily Philpots, fussing if her clothes were not immaculate.

“They’ll ruin the child between them,” said Christabel.

Carlotta took all this adulation as her right.

My father scarcely looked at her. I wondered what he would have said if he had known she was his grandchild.

He once made a comment on her. “She’ll be another such as her mother,” he said, and that was not meant to be a compliment, for as I have said there was a definite antipathy between him and Harriet.

We passed into the unsatisfactory summer when I made an effort to continue with my life as it had been before the great adventure. Christabel and I made a show of taking lessons together but my thoughts were always at Eyot Abbas with my child. Christabel, too, was absentminded; that unhappy look had come back to her and I could tell by some of the bitterness of her comments that she was dissatisfied with her lot.

Once she said: “What will become of me when I am no longer required to teach you?”

I answered: “You could stay with me as long as you wished to.”

“I’d be a sort of Sally Nullens or Emily Philpots, I suppose.”

“You would never be like that. You and I have been friends.” She turned away and I saw her lips move in that pathetic way which always upset me. In spite of her aloofness there was a closeness between us. After all, she knew a great deal more about me than anyone else in the house did.

There was a great scare that year and my mother was very anxious. Ever since the Popish Plot had been the great event of the time, showing us that our comfortable lives could be easily and tragically interrupted, an uneasiness had settled on her. I knew it concerned my father.

He was a very forceful man and not inclined to keep his opinions to himself. He had grown firmly anti-Catholic, and as the heir to the throne was James, Duke of York and he made no secret of his leanings, she could see trouble ahead. My father was a great friend of the Duke of Monmouth and my mother always said that he was one who was born for trouble.

Monmouth, son of Charles the Second and Lucy Walter, was the most colourful man at Court … next to his father. He had good looks, which his father lacked, and he had a certain charm; he did not possess his father’s shrewdness and clever devious mind, though he was bold and reckless—brave enough, but careless of his own safety and that of others.

The King loved him dearly, and while Charles lived, Monmouth would be forgiven a hundred indiscretions. Yet those about him feared that he might go a little too far one day. And during that summer it seemed he had.

It was understandable that my mother should view with disquiet my father’s friendship with such as Monmouth. It was not so much that my father was devoted to the man; it was rather what he stood for. My father said he had not lived through the Commonwealth and upheld the Royalist cause for the sake of a Catholic bigot who before long would have the Inquisition installed in England.

He would grow very fierce when he talked of such matters and I noticed that my mother, who normally would have indulged in verbal battle with him, was unusually silent.

When we first heard about the Rye House Plot she became almost ill with anxiety.

It was a foolish plot, doomed to disaster. The plan was to assassinate the King and his brother as they rode back to London from the Newmarket races. The road led past a lonely farmhouse, near Hoddesdon in Hertfordshire, known as Rye House, and from this the plot took its name. It was owned by a man named Rumbold, who was one of the chief instigators.

Two events worked against them. There was a fire in the house in Newmarket where the King and Duke were staying, and they decided that rather than bother finding another lodging they would return to London. Thus they travelled along the road past Rye House Farm before the conspirators expected them.

Meanwhile a letter was found addressed to Lord Dartmouth in which the plan was set out.

Having just emerged from the excitement of the Popish Plot, which had now petered out like a dampened fire, the people were eager to give their attention to another plot. The Rye House Plot was discussed with animation throughout the country. A proclamation was issued for the apprehending of suspects and there was a reward of a hundred pounds to any who succeeded in bringing any of the conspirators to justice.

This was when my mother began to grow uneasy. She was terrified that my father might be involved and that for the large sum of one hundred pounds someone might be tempted to betray him.

I heard them discussing it together.

“I tell you,” he said, “I was not involved. I had no part in it. It was a foolish venture, in any case … doomed to failure. Besides, do you think I would agree to a plot to assassinate Charles?”

“I know of your affection for him … and his for you …”

“And you think I am in the habit of plotting against those for whom I have affection?”

“I know your strong feelings for Monmouth and your desire to see him on the throne.”

“Oh, Bella, you surprise me. I want Monmouth on the throne only if there is a question of James taking it. What I want is what is best for the country … for you—for me … for every one of us … and that is that Charles shall stay where he is for the next ten or twenty years.”

“I could not believe that you would want to harm him.”

They walked together in the gardens arm in arm—not hiding their tenderness for each other on this occasion.

Being so absorbed in my child and my constant thought being how we could be together, I had little time to brood on plots. As long as I knew that my father was not involved I could forget it. There had been an attempt on the life of the King; guilty men had been brought to justice; and that was an end to it.

It was disconcerting to discover that this was no rustic conspiracy contrived by a mere maltster in a country farmhouse. It was revealed that quite a number of rich and influential members of the nobility were concerned in it. Lord Howard of Escrick and William Lord Russell were two of them. Heads began to fall and I could see that my mother was growing more and more apprehensive.

It was not long before the name of Monmouth was beginning to be mentioned.

The King was taking his usual diffident attitude towards the whole affair. My father said that Charles was more interested in intrigues with his mistresses than attempts on his life. His attitude was: It has failed, so why be concerned about it? He was a man who disliked conflict and wanted to live in peace. He enjoyed witty conversation and the company of beautiful women far more than bringing his enemies to justice.

“He is a man,” said my father, “who regards death without concern. His idea of heaven would be a Whitehall where there were no plots or tiresome issues. It should be all pleasure which he finds in the women who surround him.”

“Yet they say he can be wily enough in his dealings with France.”

“Ah,” said my father, “he leads the French King where he will, and what is amusing, he also leads him to believe that the leading strings are in French hands. Quite a feat, really. Charles is shrewd, Charles is clever, but above all he is lazy and can never really give quite the same concentration to anything as he gives to the seduction of women. If only he would make up his mind and legitimatize Monmouth. It seems the sensible thing to do.”

“And now what?” asked my mother. “Monmouth is involved in this …”

“Jemmy would never agree to kill his father. That I know.”

“How will he prove it?”

Monmouth did convince his father that although he had known of the plot he would never have agreed to the killing of his father. Whether the King believed him or not no one was certain. Whether Monmouth would be prepared to commit parricide for the sake of the throne no one was certain either. What was certain was that Charles could not bring himself to execute his own son—traitor though he might be.

The King could not of course ignore what had happened, and as a result Monmouth was banished from Court. When we heard that he had gone to Holland my mother was intensely relieved. My father laughed at her. She was like an old hen, he said, clucking round her family.

But they were close, those two, and I liked to see them thus.

Two people who lived near us were involved in the plot. They had visited us now and then in the past, being near neighbours. It was a shock, therefore, to hear that they had been arrested.

There was John Enderby, who had lived in a rather fine house called Enderby Hall with his wife and son, and even closer to us there was Gervaise Hilton of Grassland Manor.

There was a great deal of talk about it. The properties would be confiscated and doubtless sold to other families. I wanted to call on them but my mother forbade it.

“It might be said that your father sent you. We have to keep outside all this.”

I obeyed her, but I wondered about the families.

They disappeared, and the houses stood there looking more and more desolate as the months passed.

Time had indeed passed. Carlotta was now over a year old—a very definite personality and growing prettier every day. Those startlingly blue eyes—not quite as dark as Harriet’s—attracted everyone’s attention, and I was amazed that people could say how like her mother she was growing. Harriet was very amused by this.

“Trust Carlotta to play her part,” she commented. “That child will be an actress, mark my words.”

I think Harriet’s interest in the baby had waned a little. One could not expect her to become completely absorbed in a child—particularly someone else’s. Moreover, Sally Nullens mounted guard over the nursery like some fabulous dragon breathing fire on anyone who dared approach her baby. I did not mind this, for I knew that Carlotta would be tended with the utmost care. Any little ailment would be detected at once and dealt with. Sally had become a different woman from that disgruntled, ageing female who had crouched over her singing kettle and rocked herself angrily before her fire. Life had meaning for her now. It was the same with Emily Philpots. Carlotta was not just an ordinary child. She was a saviour. They doted on her, but I knew that Sally would not allow any spoiling which, good nurse that she was, she knew was bad for the child. She had her rules, which must be obeyed, and at the same time nothing was spared in the devotion she bore the child.

Carlotta could not be in better hands and I should have been satisfied, but how I longed to have her for myself!

That Christmas, Harriet and Gregory came to us at Eversleigh, so I had the baby under the same roof, which was wonderful. Harriet did warn me that I must not behave as though there was nothing in life but Carlotta.

“It might set minds working,” she said. “After all, it was rather unconventional to go to Venice to have my child. Try to be a little restrained, dear.”

I knew what she meant when I heard my mother’s comment: “Priscilla will make a good mother. Just look at her with Carlotta. You would think she was the mother—not Harriet.”

Yes, I could see that Harriet was right. I was on dangerous ground.

That was an exceptionally cold Christmas and during January my father said that we were all to go to London. There were invitations from Court and they could not be ignored.

He was looking at Christabel and me rather speculatively and I fancied he was thinking that I was no longer a child. I was sixteen years and would be seventeen in July. I could see how his thoughts were working, and although he was as indifferent to me as ever, he did remember his duty as a father and that would be to get me suitably married.

The idea was repulsive to me. It horrified me. How could I marry without telling my husband that I had a child?

I began to feel very apprehensive.

It was the coldest winter within living memory. There had been a hard frost since the beginning of December and when we arrived in London it was a different city. The Thames was frozen so hard that salesmen had been able to set up booths on it, making it look like a fair. It had changed the face of the city and newcomers marvelled. The inhabitants were now used to it and they just went out walking and shopping on the river.

There was a great deal of merrymaking. It seemed to be an occasion to celebrate. There had never been anything like it and doubtless there never would be again. The ice was as hard as stone; this was proved because they had started running coaches from Westminster to the Temple; and when they roasted an ox on the ice, the fire made little impression.

Some of the Puritans—and there were still many around-declared that the weather would grow colder still and we should all be frozen to death—except the righteous. God had sent the plague and the great fire and this was another warning.

The watermen were dour. This was taking away their trade. Many of them set up stalls and turned into salesmen.

“What is good for one is bad for another,” was the philosophical comment.

My mother, with Christabel and myself, would go and shop on the Thames. The cold was intense but the stall holders were very merry, and we had to be very careful how we walked across the ice. But it was so hard that it was like walking on stone and so much traffic had made it less slippery than it would otherwise have been.

Everyone was watching for the thaw; but so thick was the ice and so long had it been there that it seemed unlikely that it would thaw quickly even when the weather changed.

It was on the ice that we made the acquaintance of Thomas Willerby. He was a middle-aged man with a somewhat portly figure and a round rosy face. He was standing by one of the stalls drinking a hot cordial. There were many sellers of hot drinks on the ice, for they were a very welcome refreshment in such weather.

It so happened that as we passed the stall, Christabel slipped and slid right into Thomas Willerby. The cordial was almost thrown into his face; it missed that, however, and went streaming down his elaborate coat.

Christabel was overcome with horror. “My dear sir,” she cried, “I am so sorry. Oh, dear! It was my fault. Your coat is ruined.”

He had a pleasant face, this Thomas Willerby. “There, there, my pretty,” he said, “don’t you fret. ’Twas no fault of yours. ’Tis this unnatural ground we’re treading on.”

My mother said: “But your coat …”

“’Tis nothing, lady. ’Tis nothing at all.”

“If it is not washed off immediately it will leave a stain.”

“Then, my dear lady, there will be a stain. I would not have this lady”—he smiled on Christabel—“worried about a coat. It was no fault of hers. As I say, it is this unnatural ice.”

“You’re very kind,” said Christabel quietly.

“Now I told you not to fret.”

“You must come to our house,” said my mother. “I insist. There I will have the coat sponged and we will do what we can with it.”

“My dear lady, you are too good.”

But it was clear that he was very eager to accept the invitation. We took him to our London house, which was close to the Palace of Whitehall, and there my mother made him take off his coat and sent a servant to bring out one of my father’s. This he put on while his own was taken away, and mulled wine was served with cakes which we called wine cakes—spicy and hot from the oven.

“Bless my soul,” said Thomas Willerby, “I’ll say it was a lucky day when I was bumped on the ice.”

My father joined us and was told the story of the encounter. He clearly took a fancy to Thomas Willerby. He had heard of him. Wasn’t he a London merchant who had come up from the country ten years before and done very well for himself?

Thomas Willerby was a man who clearly liked company. He also liked to talk about himself. He was that very Thomas Willerby, he assured my father. He had suffered a bereavement a year ago. He had lost his dear wife. They had had no children, a great sorrow to them both. Well, now he was thinking of retiring from business. He had made his fortune and would like to settle in the country … not too far from the town … within reach of London. Perhaps he would like to do a little farming. He was not sure. What he needed was the right house.

They talked awhile of the country’s affairs and the Rye House Plot, of course. They agreed that it would be a sad day for England when the King died, there being no heirs but the King’s brother and the questionable one of his illegitimate son.

Thomas Willerby did not wish to see the country go Papist and in this he was in complete accord with my father.

By the time the coat was brought in, sponged and looking fresh and as clean as it had been before the wine was spilled on it, we had become very friendly and my father had suggested that Thomas Willerby might like to look at two properties not very far from our own Eversleigh Court.

These were Enderby Hall and Grassland Manor, which had been confiscated when their owners were caught in the Plot. My father believed that these could be had by the right buyer.

The outcome was that Thomas Willerby decided that he must come and look at them.

That turned out to be quite an eventful morning.

There was no sign of the thaw until February. Then the booths disappeared from the river and gradually the ice began to crack.

By that time Thomas Willerby had bought Grassland Manor, which was only about half a mile from us. My father seemed very pleased to have him as a neighbour and showed great friendship towards him.

He visited us frequently and paid a great deal of attention to us all, but I fancied particularly to Christabel. He was clearly delighted to have made a contact which brought him into our family.

My father was, of course, a man who was rather sought after. He was rich and influential in Court circles, being such a close friend of the King and the Duke of Monmouth—not that the latter was a favourable thing to be at this time since the Duke was in exile. But it was known that the King showed special favour to my father because he amused him.

Thomas Willerby was a man who had not moved in the highest echelons of society. He was rich, though he had not inherited a penny. He was a countryman who had come to London to seek his fortune, which through hard work and honest dealing he had found in good measure. Having a deep respect for those born in a higher grade of society than himself, he was delighted to be received as a friend at Eversleigh.

He and Christabel were often together. There was that trait in Christabel’s character which made her constantly imagine that she was not quite acceptable—though had she not assumed this, no one would have doubted it. But this attitude did not naturally extend to Thomas Willerby; and one day she came to me in a state of obvious pleasure.

“I must speak to you, Priscilla,” she said. “Something wonderful has happened.”

I begged her to tell me without delay.

“Your father sent for me. He has told me that Thomas Willerby has asked for my hand in marriage and that he thinks it would be a suitable match. I am going to marry Thomas Willerby, Priscilla.”

“Do you … love him?”

“Yes,” she said fervently, “I do.”

I embraced her. “Then I am so happy for you.”

“I don’t really deserve this happiness,” she said.

“Oh, nonsense, Christabel, of course you do.”

She shook her head. “You see, this will make everything come right.”

I was not quite sure what she meant. She hesitated for a moment, then she said: “He has admitted it now. And you should know. I always guessed, of course, when I came here…”

“What are you talking about, Christabel?”

“I am not the Connalts’ daughter. My father is yours and my mother was Lady Letty.”

“Christabel!”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “theirs was an affair which had unfortunate consequences—myself. Our father was then married to his first wife, and it was unthinkable—as you yourself know—that an unmarried lady should produce a child. So I was born in secret like your own Carlotta and then I was given into the care of the Connalts to be brought up as their daughter. Lady Letty arranged the living for them and they came to the rectory with the newly born child.”

“My dear Christabel!” I put my arms about her and kissed her. “Then we are sisters.”

“Half sisters,” she corrected me. “But what a difference! You were acknowledged, accepted, born in wedlock. That makes all the difference.”

I immediately thought of Carlotta and I said to myself: It shall make no difference to her. She shall have every advantage.

“And you knew this, Christabel.”

“Not for certain. I guessed, though. Our father used to come to the Connalts sometimes and he would watch me. I was aware of that. Lady Letty took an interest, too. She used to send things for me … although they weren’t supposed to come from her. And when I came here and was treated as I was … not like a governess really and at the same time not like a member of the family … I felt certain.”

“I wish you had told me before.”

“Suppose you had betrayed me? I might have been turned away.”

I understood it all now … the bitterness, the moods of dejection. Poor Christabel!

“It’s strange,” she said. “They call us … people born as I was … the love children. Yet love is something which we so often miss.”

Carlotta, too, I thought. My love child. Carlotta was not going to miss love. That I should make sure of.

“It is wonderful to discover a sister,” I said.

“I have been so jealous of you.”

“I know.”

“It was hateful of me.”

“No. I understand. You won’t be jealous now, though.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m not jealous of anyone now. Thomas chose me right from the first. I shall always remember that.”

“I think he is a very good man, Christabel,” I said.

“He is,” she answered. “Oh, Priscilla, I am so happy.”

There was nothing to delay the marriage, said my father, and so it took place almost immediately. Christabel blossomed. She was clearly very happy. She was busy furnishing Grassland Manor and she often came over to see us, bustling about in a state of ecstatic domesticity. She had her still-room and her flower garden and she fussed about Thomas Willerby in a manner which astonished me. She had always seemed a little cold before, never very demonstrative in her affections. I had never seen anyone change so much. Of course, her husband was delighted with her and no one could doubt that it was the happiest of marriages.

Within a short time she came over to Eversleigh to confide in me that she was going to have a baby. It seemed all she needed to make her bliss complete.

With great pride she showed me the nursery, and Thomas purred and puffed and gazed at her as though, as Carl rather irreverently remarked, she were the Virgin Mary.

It gave me great pleasure to see their happiness and it was my turn now to feel a pang of envy. I thought how different everything would have been if Jocelyn and I had married and I had been able to make my preparations openly as Christabel did, instead of indulging in what, looking back, seemed a quite incongruous farce. Moreover I was separated from my child for long periods so I could not be very contented with my lot. I thought about consulting Harriet, asking if she could think up another plan in which I adopted Carlotta.

That December, Christabel’s child was born. Both my mother and I went to Grassland Manor and were there during the birth. We had to comfort Thomas, who was in a panic lest anything should go wrong. His devotion to Christabel was heartwarming, and I thought what a marvellous trick of fate’s it was to have sent us out on the ice that morning.

The birth was long and arduous. In due course though we heard the cry of a child. The look of joy which came over Thomas’s face moved me deeply.

We sat tense, waiting. Finally the midwife emerged. “It is a boy,” she said.

There was silence. Thomas was too overjoyed to speak.

Then he said: “And my wife?”

“Very, very tired. She cannot see you … not yet.”

There was a warning in her voice and a terrible fear struck me. I looked at Thomas and saw the joy fading from his face.

My mother said: “It was a long labour. She will be all right when she has rested.”

During the few days which followed there were grave fears for Christabel’s survival. She had developed a fever and needed the greatest care. My father sent our doctor to her and he also brought down one of the Court doctors. I was glad he did. It showed that he had some feeling for his daughter.

My mother and I were at Grassland Manor more often than at Eversleigh Court. Together we nursed her and great was our joy when at last we began to see signs of improvement. My father had told my mother that Christabel was his daughter. She said she had guessed and wanted to do everything she could make up for those early days at the rectory.

“She’s going to get well,” I told Thomas.

He just put his arms round me and clung to me. I was touched and surprised to think that Christabel had inspired such devotion.

As for the baby—christened Thomas—he thrived, quite unaware of the near tragedy his coming had brought with it.

The doctors said that Christabel must go very carefully and must not think of having more babies for a long time … if ever.

Christmas had passed almost unnoticed and the New Year was upon us. A wet nurse had been found for Master Thomas and he gave little trouble. He was a contented child, healthy in every way and a great delight to both his parents.

This was what Christabel had needed all her life—to be loved. She was ready enough to give love in return and I have never known any woman more contented with her lot than Christabel was with hers at that time.

One cold January afternoon when the north wind was buffeting the walls of the house and it was comforting to be sitting before a warm fire, she confided in me.

She said: “How strange life is, Priscilla. Only a short time ago I had nothing. The future looked bleak. I dreaded it. And then suddenly everything changed. Happiness such as I had never dreamed possible came to me.”

“That is life, Christabel. It’s a lesson, I suppose. One shouldn’t ever be too despondent.”

“Or too elated, perhaps.”

“I don’t agree. When we are happy we should live it fully at the time and give no thought to the future.”

“Is that what you thought when you were on the island with Jocelyn?”

“I didn’t consciously think it. I suppose I was just happy to love and be loved by him. I accepted that moment and did not think beyond it.”

“With what consequences!”

I said: “I would not be without Carlotta for anything.”

“I understand that, Priscilla. I’m rather wicked, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, nonsense! What are you talking about?”

“I don’t deserve all this.”

“Of course you do. It wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t. Do you think Thomas would be so completely in love with the sort of person you’re trying to make out you are?”

“I’m different with him. I loved him from the moment he was so charming about the coat. He loved his first wife but she couldn’t give him children, and now we have little Thomas. He is so happy about it. He always wanted children and now he has a son. He says he can’t believe all this could come to him because of a piece of slippery ice.”

“Well, it has come and now all you have to do is appreciate it and keep yourselves happy.”

“I intend to. I wouldn’t do anything to spoil it.”

“Then don’t talk of spoiling it. Don’t even think of it.”

“I won’t. But I can’t be completely happy until you have forgiven me.”

“I forgive you? For what?”

“I was envious. I think I sometimes hated you. You were so kind to me, yet I couldn’t stop it. I was fond of you often, but there was this strong resentment inside me. It was horrible. It was so strong it made me want to harm you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was so conscious of being the outcast, the unwanted one, the child whose existence had been an embarrassment … like something you hide under a stone. To be put out by your parents, Priscilla, is heartbreaking to a sensitive child. I never had any love at all. The Connalts had none to give to anyone. They were the worst possible foster parents for a child like myself.”

“It’s all over, Christabel. It’s done with. You’re out of it. You have your son and your husband who adores you, and you have this lovely home. Never mind what you suffered to get here … you’re here now and it’s going to stay this way.”

“You will understand me, Priscilla, I know, but let me confess. It will ease my conscience.”

“Very well. Confess.”

“There was a horrible need in me to humiliate you as I had been humiliated. You were the legitimate daughter, I the illegitimate one. I have a very unpleasant nature, you see. I knew what was happening between you and Jocelyn. I knew how innocent you were. I knew how people feel when they are desperate. We were going on the island, remember … all three of us. Then I pleaded a headache and I didn’t go. I knew it was going to be misty. One of the gardeners told me. I deliberately let you go alone … the two of you.”

“But why?”

“It occurred to my devious mind that what would happen was what did. My mind was twisted. Envy does twist the mind. It’s the deadliest of emotions. It hurts the one who feels it more than the one it is directed against. Somehow I believed that it would happen as it did. You were two desperate people and it was inevitable that you should snatch at a few hours of happiness while you could. I did not think there would be a child, but this, of course, was a possibility. You see how my mind worked. I am really evil. And that I should have worked against you who have always been so kind to me …”

“Is that all your confession?” I asked.

She nodded. “Isn’t it enough?”

I kissed her. “Please forget it, Christabel. I knew it long ago. Carlotta is so important to me that I cannot brood on how she came to be here. I can only rejoice that she is.”

“It would have been better for you to have married Leigh. He loves you. Then you could have had children and they would have been with you. There wouldn’t have been all this secrecy.”

“You have always built up trouble, Christabel. You look for it. You look for slights. I noticed that from the first. Edwin upset you.”

“I never really cared for Edwin. I know that now. I just wanted to escape from my poverty and insignificance. Edwin is weak. I like strong men.”

“And now you have your husband and child. Be happy, Christabel. You must be happy. You must make the most of what life has given you. If you don’t, you might lose it.”

She shivered and I put a shawl about her shoulders.

“I am wicked, Priscilla,” she said. “If you only knew …”

I kissed her.

“No more of this morbidity. Shall I ask them to bring young Thomas in?”

She held out her hand to me and nodded.

When we returned to Eversleigh Court a shock awaited us.

My father was pacing up and down the hall, clearly in a state of tension and excitement.

“What has happened?” cried my mother.

“The King is dead,” he replied.

My mother put her hand to her heart and turned pale.

“Carleton, what will this mean?” she whispered.

“That, my dear, remains to be seen.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That also depends.”

“Oh, God,” prayed my mother fervently, “don’t let this mean trouble.

“It was not unexpected,” she went on. “Of course he has not been well of late.”

“No,” added my father. “For a year or more he has been unwell and not the man he was. He was so full of health before that, tiring his friends out at walking and sport. But of late he has been mildly irritable … so rare before with him. I think I saw it coming, but not so suddenly as this.”

“He is not old. Fifty-five is not an age to die.”

“He has lived too well perhaps. He has had the appointed span albeit he has packed into less years more than most men do.”

They were talking round the real issue which was how would Monmouth act now, and more important still, what did my father intend to do?

My father went on talking about the King’s death, how the evening before he became ill he had been in the midst of the company and seemed well enough. He had supped with his concubines—the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Cleveland and Mazarin—and had given them many caressing displays of affection as was his wont. There had been the usual gambling and music, and they had all been enchanted by the singing of a little French boy who had been sent over by the courtesy of the King of France.

The King had visited the apartments of the Duchess of Portsmouth and had been lighted back to his rooms, where he had joked in his usual benevolent manner. The gentleman-in-waiting, whose duty it was to sleep on a mattress in his room along with the spaniels which were the King’s constant companions, had said that the King had groaned in his sleep and when he arose did not seem well. He had taken a few drops of the medicine he had invented himself and which was called “The King’s Drops.” My father had had it given to him on more than one occasion and the King had described the ingredients to him: they were opium, bark of elder and sassafras all mixed up together in wine. Fifteen drops of this in a glass of sherry was considered to be a cure for all ailments. It had failed to cure the King, and when his servants were shaving him they were horrified to see his face grow suddenly purple, his eyes roll to the ceiling as he lolled forward in his chair. They could not understand what he was trying to say. They thought he was choking. He tried to rise and fell back into their arms. They feared death was imminent.

The Duke of York—the heir—came running to his brother’s bedside with one foot in a slipper and the other in a shoe. They had not known whether Charles had recognized him.

“York!” cried my father angrily. “It is a sad day for this country with such a King. Charles knew the people did not want James. Didn’t he say once: ‘They’d never get rid of me, James, because that would mean having you. Therefore the crown is safe on my head.’ Oh, why didn’t he legitimatize Monmouth!”

“There would still have been those who stood for James.”

“The Catholics, yes,” retorted my father angrily. Then he went on to tell us how attempts had been made to save the King’s life. Every remedy known had been used: hot irons pressed to his forehead, a liquid made from the extraction from skulls of dead men and women forced down his throat. He had been in great pain, but he had regained control of his speech and managed to joke in his wonted manner.

“We thought he was going to live,” said my father. “You should have seen the joy in people’s faces. They wanted to light their bonfires everywhere. Alas, it was a little too early to rejoice. There was a relapse and then there could be no doubt that he was dying. He showed more concern for his mistresses and his illegitimate children than anyone else.”

“And Monmouth?” asked my mother.

“He did not mention his name.”

“So now James the Second is King of England.”

“God help us, yes.”

“Carleton, you will not become involved. You will stay here in the country.”

“My dear Arabella, you know me better than that.”

“Does all this mean nothing to you? Your home, your family … ?”

“So much,” he answered, “that I shall protect it with my life if need be.”

They seemed unaware of me. I turned away and left them. He was comforting her, easing her fears. But I knew him well. He was a man who, when he had made up his mind that a cause was right, would stop at nothing to work for it. He had been the one who had stayed in England during the Commonwealth to work for the return of the King. He had lived in the midst of his enemies, posing as a Roundhead, he, the greatest Royalist of them all.

He had risked his life every minute of the day. He would do it again.

I was very uneasy.

We knew little peace from that moment. My mother went about the house like a pale ghost. My father was often at Court. I noticed how nervous my mother was becoming. She was startled every time we heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard.

We learned that the new King had heard Mass openly in the Queen’s chapel. The Quakers sent a deputation to him in which they testified their sorrow in the death of Charles and their loyalty to the new King. The wording of the petition was significant.

We are told that thou art not of the persuasion of the Church of England any more than we, and therefore we hope that thou will grant unto us the same liberty thou allowest thyself.

In April the new King and Queen were crowned. James showed his leanings clearly by arresting Titus Oates, and although none felt any great sorrow about that, it did indicate that the King wished for no voice to be raised against the Catholics. Titus Oates was made to pay a fine of one thousand marks, was defrocked and condemned to be whipped publicly twice, and every year of his life to stand five times in the pillory. This would perhaps be the worst ordeal of all, as he had gathered many enemies during his reign of terror.

It was May—a beautiful month. Twenty-five years ago Charles had come back to regain his kingdom, and for those years the country had been lulled into a sense of security and rich living. The Puritan rule was over; the meaning of life was pleasure. The King had set the example and the country was only too happy to follow. The reign had been marred only by the Popish Plot and the Rye House Plot; and both of these had been formed at the instigation of foolish, evil men.

Now the days of soft living were over. There was a new King on the throne, and he was a Catholic King in a country which was dedicated in the main to Protestantism. It was said that Charles himself had been a Catholic; if he had been, he had also been too wise to show it openly. James had no such cynical wisdom, and in that beautiful month of May the menacing clouds hung over our house.

My father said quite casually, but I could tell he was hiding his excitement, “The Duke of Monmouth has sailed from Texel with a frigate and two small vessels.”

“So,” replied my mother blankly, “he is coming to England.”

My father nodded.

“He will not be such a fool …” she began.

My father said: “He is the King’s son. Many say Charles was married to Lucy Walter. Most important of all, he will stand for the Protestant cause.”

“Carleton!” she cried, “you will not …”

“My dear,” he answered very soberly, “you may be sure that I shall do what I consider best for us all.”

He would say no more than that. But he was waiting. And we knew that one day the summons would come.

It was nearly three weeks later when it did.

Monmouth had landed at Lyme in Dorset and was appealing to his friends to join him. He was going to make an attempt to take the throne from James.

On the day my father left for the West Country a Bill of Attainder was issued against the Duke and a reward of five hundred pounds offered to anyone who could bring him to justice, dead or alive.

My mother was inconsolable.

“Why did he have to do this!” she cried. “This will be civil war. Why do we have to take sides? What does it matter to me what King is on the throne?”

I said: “It matters to my father.”

“Does it matter more than his home … his family?”

“He was always a man for causes,” I reminded her.

She nodded, and a bitter smile touched her mouth. I knew she was thinking of her arrival here when she had come with her first husband—Edwin’s father—and how she met my father, who was then living at the utmost risk … for a cause.

“Monmouth will never succeed,” she said vehemently, “I know it.”

“And I know,” I assured her, “that my father is a man who will win through.”

It was a grain of comfort … nothing more. There was little we could do but wait. It was then that she gave me the family journals to read and I learned so much about her and him that I was filled with a new tenderness towards them both.

News came from the West Country. Monmouth had taken Taunton and it seemed that the West was ready to declare for him. Flushed with victory, he had issued a counter proclamation to that of the King, offering five thousand pounds for the head of King James and declaring Parliament a seditious assembly.

“It was the braggart in him,” said my mother. He was young and reckless. He might be Charles’s son but he would never be the man his father had been.

“How can your father! How can he? Monmouth is doomed to failure. He has failure written all over him. I pray to God to guard your father.”

There was a jubilant message from my father. Monmouth had been proclaimed King in Taunton and was marching on Bristol.

We heard later that he did not reach Bristol, as the King’s army was approaching. So he went back to Bridgwater and there prepared for the great battle.

My father wrote to us on the eve of the battle and sent a messenger to us.

Be of good heart. Ere long there will be a new King on the throne and though his name will be James he will not be James Stuart. This will be James Scott, King of England.

Reading the letter my mother grew angry.

“How foolish of him … to write thus. The risk he runs! Oh, Priscilla, I fear for him. I fear so much.”

I repeated my belief that he would always win through. “Whatever happens, he will be all right. I know it.”

She smiled wanly. “He always got what he wanted,” she agreed.

The outcome of that fateful battle of Sedgemoor is well known. What chance had Monmouth against the King’s forces led by the Earl of Faversham and his second in command, John Churchill? Monmouth’s army consisted of rustics and men such as my father who, for all their bravery and dedication, were not professional soldiers.

Monmouth’s army was easily defeated and Monmouth himself, seeing the day was lost, was more intent on preserving his own life than standing to fight with those who had so loyally supported him.

Many people had been taken prisoner—among them my father.

We were stunned, although my mother had been expecting disaster ever since the death of the King, but that our pleasant lives should be suddenly so devastated was something we found it hard to accept.

The news grew worse. My father was imprisoned in Dorchester, and when my mother heard that the Lord Chief Justice, Baron George Jeffreys, would preside at the trial, she was overcome by a frenzy of grief.

“He is a wicked man,” she cried. “He is cruel beyond belief. I have heard such tales of him. And your father will be at his mercy. He said at the time of his appointment that he could not understand why Jeffreys had been given the post. Charles disliked him. He once said he had no learning, no sense, no manners and more impudence than ten carted streetwalkers. I know he opposed the appointment for a long time. It was a sign of his weakening strength that he at length gave way. Oh, I am so afraid. He hates men like your father. He envies them their good looks, their breeding and their boldness. He will have no mercy. There is nothing he enjoys more than condemning a man to death.”

My mother’s grief was more than I could bear. I kept thinking of wild plans to rescue my father. The thought of his being herded into prison with countless others was horrifying.

Thomas and Christabel came to see us as soon as they heard the news; they were genuinely grieved. Thomas had a grain of comfort to offer. “Jeffreys is a greedy man,” he said. “It is hinted that he will be lenient in return for some profit. They say he is hoping to make a small fortune out of these assizes, for there are some rich people involved.”

“Then there is a chance!” cried my mother.

“It would have to be done very tactfully and he would want a good deal, I daresay.”

“I would give everything I have,” she replied fervently.

Clearly the Willerbys had raised her spirits, for she came to my room that night. She looked very frail and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She stood against the door and I longed to comfort her, for I knew that without him her life would not be worth living.

She said: “I have made up my mind. I shall leave for the West Country tomorrow.”

“Do you think it possible to bribe this judge?”

“It is obviously possible and I am going to do it.”

“I shall come with you,” I answered.

“Oh, my dearest child,” she cried, “I knew you would.”

“We will make our preparations early in the morning,” I said, “and leave just as soon as we are ready.”

What followed is like a nightmare to me—and still is.

We went by stagecoach, which seemed the easiest way. It was a sombre journey and at the inn where we rested there was constant talk of what was being called the Monmouth Rebellion. The name of Judge Jeffreys was spoken in low whispers. It was clear that everyone pitied his victims.

It was said that he not only passed the harshest sentences which he could, but he did so with relish and could, with his wicked tongue, turn innocence into guilt.

As we approached the west, the mist grew more intense. Monmouth’s army had been active only in Dorset and Somerset, and the prisoners were all judged in those counties.

Jeffreys, with his lieutenants, was in his element. He delighted in his grisly work. There should be no delay once a man was sentenced. In twenty-four hours from his condemnation he was swinging on a gallows or suffering whatever the bloodthirsty judge had decreed for him.

“Oh, God,” prayed my mother, “let us get there in time.”

I think perhaps I pitied her more than I did my father. If he were sentenced, his death would come quickly. She would be haunted by the tragedy for the rest of her days. She was almost demented with grief. We would save him, I promised her. We must. It was not impossible and she must not allow herself to think so. We were going to get there in time. We were going to give everything we had if necessary to save my father’s life.

It was so irksome for her when we stayed in the inns on the way. She would have liked to drive through the night.

As we came nearer to our destination, so did the horror increase. The judge, whose name was on every lip, and was spoken of with disgust and repugnance, had ordered that it should be brought home to the people what happened to traitors. Often we passed limbs hanging on trees and corpses of hanged men. The smell of death permeated the air.

“What shall we do?” demanded my mother. “What can we do when we get there?”

At an inn one night they were talking about the case of Lady Lisle whose crime had been to give food to two of Monmouth’s followers who had escaped from the battlefield.

Jeffreys’ manner towards the poor woman had been so cruel even for him that the case was being discussed everywhere.

He had a way, this judge, of bullying his juries into giving the verdict he wanted. If they seemed inclined to be lenient he would fix them with a glare from the most wicked eyes in the world so that they shivered in their seats and wondered what case would be brought against them if they did not do the judge’s bidding.

This poor lady was called a traitor; she should suffer the death of traitors. He sentenced her to be burned to death.

This was too much to be accepted. Moreover, it was being said that the harshness shown to Lady Lisle came at the instigation of a higher source, for she was the widow of John Lisle, who had been one of the judges at the trial of Charles the First.

This seemed like the King’s revenge on the murderers of his father, and friends of Lady Lisle were pointing out that the lady herself was guilty only of two things—giving food to men who happened to be flying from Sedgemoor and being the wife of a man who, with others, had condemned Charles the First.

James should consider. What would his brother Charles have done? He would never have allowed a woman to be treated so.

James was not inclined to enjoy being compared with his brother, but he did have enough sense to see that to submit a frail woman to one of the most barbaric deaths conceivable for no real crime would not redound to his credit. At the same time he wanted everyone to know that they would be ill advised to take up arms against him.

Lady Lisle was saved from the stake to lose her head on the block.

My mother had scarcely eaten since we left home. She was very pale and had lost weight. I was fearful for her health.

There was more news. Monmouth had escaped to the New Forest even before the battle was over. He had hidden there for a few days but had been captured and taken to London. There he had implored the King to save his life. “For my father’s sake,” he begged. “You are my uncle. Remember that.”

But James only remembered that Monmouth had tried to take the crown from him. There was no point in delay, he said.

We had reached the town of Dorchester when news was brought to us of Monmouth’s death. He had deserted his army; he had cringed before the King; but once he knew that death was inevitable, he had met it bravely, affirming on the scaffold his adherence to the Church of England. It must have been a gruesome scene because the executioner struck five times before he completely severed the head and brought about the end of the Duke of Monmouth, reckless, ambitious and lacking in principle.

At least he died a brave man.

This was small comfort to my mother.

We came to lodge in an inn in the ancient market town—a busy one, for through it passed the road to Devon and Cornwall. The earthworks, known as Maiden Castle, relic of four thousand years before when the land must have been little more than a forest, brought many people to look at it. But we had no thought of such matters.

My mother, frantic with anxiety, frustrated because she had no idea how to set about the task of freeing my father, was in a desperate state, and the very night we arrived at the inn was smitten with a fever and was delirious. I was really frightened and the next morning sent for a doctor. He came and said she must rest and nothing must be done to disturb her. He gave her a potion to make her sleep.

“You are here because you have a relative prisoner?” he asked.

I nodded.

The doctor shook his head sadly. “Let her sleep as long as you can. It is acute anxiety which has brought this on. I have seen much of this since our town was turned into a court and a shambles.”

I was grateful for his sympathy. I asked myself what I should do. How could I set about this delicate task? To whom did I offer my bribe? I must not run into trouble, for there was my mother to care for.

I was in a state of great anxiety.

When the doctor had left I went down to the inn parlour. I wondered if I could speak to the innkeeper. There might be someone here … someone from the army, perhaps, who could help me. Edwin and Leigh were in the army. It was ironical to think that they might have been fighting against my father had they been in England.

We had at least been saved that.

My grandfather, my mother’s father, now dead, had been General Tolworthy; the Eversleighs were connected with the army, too. Yes, I decided there must be some high-ranking soldier in this town who would be ready to help me.

I came into the inn parlour. A man was sitting there. He was in uniform, so he was a soldier and a high-ranking one. My heart beat fast. My prayers might be about to be answered.

I said, “Good day.”

He turned. I was looking into the face of Beaumont Granville.

A shiver of terror ran down my spine.

I muttered: “I’m sorry. I thought I knew you.”

Then I turned and ran quickly up the stairs.

I was trembling. I felt sick with fear. The nightmare was indeed growing worse.

I looked at my mother lying there sleeping. She was pale and very still. I knelt by the bed and hid my face in the bedclothes.

I felt very apprehensive.

After a few moments I arose. He wouldn’t have recognized me, I assured myself. He had said nothing. I should have to be watchful now. I must keep out of his way.

What evil fate had brought him here to Dorchester? I had not thought of his being a soldier—one of the King’s men. This town was full of soldiers.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I must have changed since those days in Venice. No, he would not have recognized me, for I had hurried from the room almost as soon as he had looked at me.

I sat down and thought of it all—those days in Venice, that night of the ball when he had come very near to kidnapping me, the birth of Carlotta; I thought of Harriet, lively, energetic, relishing a situation which was full of pitfalls.

What can I do? I asked myself.

I felt the situation was growing more and more desperate every minute.

There was a knock at my door. I started up, crying: “Who is there?”

It was the innkeeper.

I opened the door and he stood there with a letter in his hand. “A gentleman asked me to give you this,” he said. I took it and said: “What gentleman?” “He is below, my lady. He awaits an answer.” “Thank you.” I shut the door and listened to his footsteps as he went down the stairs.

For some moments I was afraid to open the letter. Then I took it to the window and read:

I know who you are and why you are here. I think I may be able to help. Will you come down to the inn parlour and discuss this?

Beaumont Granville

I stared at the paper. So he had recognized me. What did it mean? He could help me? My impulse was to tear up the letter.

I stood for a moment hesitating and then I looked at my mother’s face.

I must at least not let the opportunity pass by. All my instincts called out to me not to trust this man. Yet what would I do? I did not know which way to turn. At Eversleigh it had seemed easy enough to say: “Offer a bribe. Others have done so with success. They say Jeffreys is becoming rich out of the Bloody Assizes.” Yet how did one offer a bribe? It was a delicate procedure. It was something which must not be mentioned in actual terms. There would have to be hints. Ways had to be found to give the bribe as though it were not being given at all.

I knew I would see this man. I must. There was no alternative.

I went down to the inn parlour.

He turned as I came in. He was smiling with what I can only call triumph. He rose and bowed low.

“So,” he said, “we meet again.”

“You had something to say to me?”

“Indeed I have. Won’t you sit down? I have told the innkeeper we must not be disturbed.”

I sat down. There was a table between us. I looked into his face. Beau Granville. The name suited him. He had those excessive good looks which had no doubt led him to believe that the world was his for the taking. I guessed he took a great pride in his appearance. His linen was scented with the smell I remembered at once. It was a mingling of musk and sandalwood, perfumes I did not like.

“I know why you are here. Your father is in prison in this town. His trial will be in two days’ time.”

“Two days,” I repeated.

He smiled. He had perfect teeth and clearly liked to show them.

“That gives us a little time,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered quietly.

“I could help you, you know.”

“How?”

He lifted his shoulders. “My country estate is on the edge of this town. I know the judge well. I have often entertained him here. I believe that a word from me would go a long way.”

“We will pay,” I said eagerly.

He put his hands to his lips. “Do not speak so,” he replied. “It could be dangerous.”

“I know these things are done. I have heard …”

“My dear young lady, you are reckless. If these things are done, then it is natural that they should be, but to speak of them, that is a crime.”

“Please be serious. This is very important to me … to us…”

“Of course. Of course.” He spoke soothingly. “Your father would meet the worst possible fate. He is just the sort my friend dislikes. Given a chance …”

“Please …we will do anything.”

“Will you?”

“We will do anything,” I repeated.

“It will rest with you.”

“What?” I said faintly.

I knew, of course. I saw those eyes, sly, lascivious, assessing me.

“I admired you from the moment I saw you,” he said. “It was a great regret to me that we did not become better acquainted in Venice. It is my urgent desire that we should repair that unfortunate state of affairs.”

“Will you please say clearly what you mean.”

“I should have thought it was clear.”

I stood up.

“Don’t be hasty,” he warned. “You will regret it all your life if you are. Think of your father. Think of your mother.”

I closed my eyes. I was thinking: I shall have to save him. I shall have to save them both. I must. And this man knows it. Oh, Leigh, where are you?

Yet what could Leigh do to save my father?

“Come,” he said, “be reasonable. Sit down. Listen.”

I sat. I felt hypnotized by those cruel golden eyes with the long, almost feminine lashes and the beautifully marked golden brows.

“You cheated me … in Venice,” he went on. “That brute came and snatched you from me. If you had only come to me then I should have so delighted you that we should have been happy together. But I lost you, and ever since I have thought of you. Then I saw you today and I knew your father was here. I can save him. I can bring many favours to people who seek them. My family is an influential one. I will save your father. I promise you … but I need my reward.”

“And your reward is …”

“You.” He leaned forward and spoke almost breathlessly. “I will send a carriage for you at sundown. You will be brought to my house. You will stay with me until the dawn. During that time you will be my beloved little slave. You will be mine entirely, denying me nothing, wishing only to serve me.”

“I think you are despicable. You are in a position—so you say—to save a man’s life, and you ask payment for that!”

“Oh, come, you are a young woman who would be too proud to accept charity. You would want to pay your debts, would you not?”

“I hate you.”

“That may be, but it is not a question of your emotions, but of mine. I am the one who has to be paid.”

“It … is not possible,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “So you will let your father die?”

I looked at him wretchedly. “Is there nothing else? … We could pay.”

“I need money. I always need money. They say I am rather extravagant. But in this case there is something I want more, and I am afraid it is the price for this particular service.”

“How could it be brought about … my father’s release, I mean?”

“I would see that he walked into the inn on the day that followed.”

“Can you be sure?”

He nodded.

“But how can I be sure?”

“It would be a gamble,” he said.

“Then I shall have to find some other means.”

“How? What will you do?”

“I will find some way.”

“There is not much time. Do you propose to seek out the judge and say, ‘Fair sir, I offer you this … or that … for my father’s life?’ I warn you his price might be the same as mine.”

I felt dizzy. I kept thinking of my father and imagined him, swinging on a rope … or worse still. I thought of my mother and I realized how dear they both were to me—he no less than she was—and that I had wanted my father’s love all my life. I had longed to shine in his eyes; I had wanted him to be proud of me and his indifference to me had not really changed my feelings towards him. Perhaps it had made me more eager for his approval.

“What if you do not keep your part of the bargain?” I asked.

“I give you my word that I shall. I can and I will do it.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You can’t be sure, can you? You will have to take that chance. I am not, as you may have guessed, noted for my virtue, but I have a deserved reputation for paying my gambling debts. When I give a promise to pay I consider it a point of honour to do so.”

“Honour. You talk of honour?”

“Honour of a sort. We all have our standards, you know. Well, what is it to be?”

I was silent. I could not bear to look at him. But even while I hesitated I knew I had to save my father.

“I will send a carriage for you at dusk,” he said. “It will bring you back the following morning. The next day you will be able to return with your parents.”

I felt numb. I had prayed for a solution, and here it was offered to me, but at what a price!

He was regarding me with glittering eyes. I thought of the first time I had seen him in St. Mark’s Square and how this had really grown out of my love for Jocelyn and had begun when I discovered him in the haunted flower garden.

I turned and hurried from the room.

My mother’s fever had not abated and the doctor came again.

“How ill is she?” I asked. “Is there not something that can be done?”

“What she needs is her husband safe beside her.”

I thought: Everything is telling me that I must do this. I could save them both. Surely what happened to me was nothing compared with their future happiness. I must save them both, no matter what it cost me.

I hated this man with an intensity I had never felt before. It was in his power to save my parents, yet to do so he insisted on my utter humiliation. One moment I wished I had never seen him, and then I remembered that if I had not there might not have been even this opportunity of saving my father.

I thought of the tangled web of my life and how one event was so closely interwoven with another. I tried to think of anything but the coming night.

For one thing I was thankful. There would have to be no explanation to my mother. She would sleep deeply through the night and if she needed anything there was a bell rope by the bed which would bring one of the serving maids to her. I trusted she would not wake and find me missing.

There seemed no fear of that. The doctor had given her a potion which he said would make her sleep, for forgetfulness was what she needed more than anything.

So, as the shadows were falling I put on my cloak and went down to the inn parlour to wait.

I did not wait long. A liveried servant came asking for me, and there was the carriage waiting to take me to my doom.

We rode through the streets of that old city which had been built hundreds of years before when the Romans came to Britain. The streets were full of strangers and there were soldiers everywhere. It was a town of roystering and tragedy, for many a Dorset man would come to a sad end within the next few days. Through the town we went, past the almshouses known as Nappers Mite, past the grammar school founded by Queen Elizabeth, and the old church with its tower which was two hundred years old.

I saw these things as though in a dream. If I save my father, I thought, I shall never want to see this place again. Then I was praying silently for help to get me through this night.

On the edge of the town was a mansion. We turned in at the gates and went up the drive. The house loomed before us—sinister, I thought, like an enchanted dwelling conjured up by evil spirits.

I tried to appear calm as I stepped down and entered the hall.

It was not unlike our hall at Eversleigh—the high vaulted roof, the long refectory table with the pewter utensils on it, the swords and halberds hanging on the wall—a typical baronial mansion.

A woman came forward. She was rotund, middle-aged and heavily painted, with a patch on her cheek and another on her temple.

“We are waiting for you, mistress,” she said. “Please follow me.”

With a heavily beating heart and a warning within me to be prepared for anything terrible and strange which might happen to me, I followed her up a staircase lined with family portraits.

We went along a gallery to a door. I was taken into a room at the end of which was a dais; curtains were half drawn across this.

The curtains were then pulled right back and a serving girl with her sleeves rolled up was waiting there. There was a hip bath and two tall pewter jugs from which rose scented steam. I guessed they contained hot water.

“I am ready, mistress,” said the maid.

The woman who had brought me in nodded. “Fill the bath,” she said; and to me: “Take off your clothes.”

I said: “I don’t understand.”

“You are here to obey orders,” said the woman with a smile, which was the first of the humiliations I was to suffer that night. I saw her in the role for which she was ideally suited; she was a pander, a procuress. I had heard of these matters.

The maid had filled the bath and turned to me giggling. I felt an impulse to turn and run. Then horrible images came into my mind. My father … my mother … And I knew then that whatever happened to me I must accept because it would be a means of saving them from tragedy.

Time passes. It will be over, I promised myself. Whatever it is I must bear it.

“Come, my dear,” said the woman. She had a deep, hoarse voice like a man’s. “We have not all night.” She laughed and the maid laughed with her.

“There is no need for a bath,” I said. “I am clean.”

“This is the way it is wanted. Are you ashamed to take off your clothes? Are you deformed or something? Oh, come, you look pretty enough to me. Now let us undo these buttons … quietly, gently. We don’t want to pull them off, do we?”

So I was stripped of my clothes.

“Quite commendable,” said the woman. The maid continued to giggle.

I stepped into the bath and washed myself.

The maid stood by with a big towel with which she dried me while the woman stood by smiling.

When I was dry she brought out a bottle of lotion which was rubbed into my skin. It smelt of musk and sandalwood which I had noticed before and reminded me of Beaumont Granville. The scent was mingled with that of roses.

“And now,” said the woman, who was growing more and more odious to me with every passing moment, “one which is to be especially for you. He has chosen for you the rose. He likes different ones for different people.” She rubbed another lotion into my arms and about my neck.

“There,” she murmured, “that will please, I have no doubt.” She turned to the maid. “The robe.”

It was wrapped about me. It was a cloak of fine silk—pale pink with black roses embroidered on it.

“There! Now let us go. My lord is impatient.”

I felt as though I had been brought into some eastern harem. The whole procedure was more hideously distasteful to me than anything I had ever known. I was trying hard not to think of what lay before me.

I followed the woman up another flight of stairs; she knocked on a door, pushed it open and led me in.

She left me there and went out, shutting the door behind her.

He came forward. He was wearing a cloak not unlike my own. The smell of musk and sandalwood was strong.

He took my hand and kissed it.

“I knew you would come. Have they treated you well?”

“Humiliatingly.”

He laughed. “It is simply the way in which you regard these matters. They did not ill-treat you?”

“Only insult me. But that was on your orders, wasn’t it?”

“I am a great believer in the bath,” he said. “And I have studied perfumes. I make my own, you know. Do you like the rose?”

“I do not like anything I find here.”

“There is one thing you have to remember about our -little adventure. You must please me.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “I know that.”

“That is what you have come here to do. You must not be upset because you have taken a bath and been anointed. Tonight is going to be one you will never forget.”

“That is something I can be sure of, although I shall do my best to put it out of my mind as soon as it is over.”

“Don’t talk of its being over when it is only just beginning.”

“Will you swear that you will save my father?”

“I have given my word. I told you, did I not, that I pay my debts? I promise you that if you give me what I want I shall give you what you want. Have no fear of that. I will tell you that I already have the matter in hand. Your father has been removed to a small room in the prison. He will spend the night there. In the morning, if you are good to me, the door of that room shall be unlocked and he shall go forth a free man. I have put our plan into action so far.”

“You must have great power and influence with this man who is murdering those men and women whose only fault was that they supported the losing side.”

He put his fingers to my lips. “You talk too freely. You must be careful, you know. We want you and your parents to be riding home within the week, don’t we?”

“Yes,” I said, “more than anything I want that.”

“Very well. You have come here to me. I appreciate that. Virtue in ladies is to be admired—but not above all things, eh? Tonight is mine. You belong to me tonight … completely. That is understood, is it not?”

“In exchange for my father’s life, yes.”

“You shall be paid for your services, never fear. Come close to me. How delightful you smell. I chose the rose for you to mingle with the musk. It’s a clever idea really. You are an attractive creature, Priscilla. I like your name. It is a prim name, you know. Primness can be very attractive as long as the owner of it knows when to discard it. You are aware of that, I am sure. First I am going to show you some of my pictures. I am an artist, you must realize. I am a man of great talent. There are many things I might have done if I had not been born a gentleman with no compulsion to do anything. I can blend my perfumes. I might have set up shop and supplied the Court. Scents to delight ladies in their boudoirs; scents to disguise evil odours, and there are plenty of those in the streets. Scents to titillate the senses and to arouse the passions of jaded gentlemen. Then I am an artist. I shall show you my pictures now. Come with me.”

The evening was taking an unexpected turn. I had not been prepared for these preliminaries. Although I was aware of the lust in him and I knew what the climax must be, I could not understand why all this cruel dallying was taking place beforehand.

There was a room leading from this one and he took me through to it. It was a small room and the walls were lined with pictures. He lighted candles and led me to the wall. There were drawings of women, all naked and in various positions which showed their physical differences clearly.

“Ladies I have loved,” he said. “I sketch them. You must admit there is a good deal of the artist in me.”

“I suppose so,” I said turning away.

“You would be surprised what a good aid they are to the memory. I come to this room and relive the hours I spent with each of these.”

“An occupation which doubtless gives you some gratification.”

“A great deal. You see this space on the wall.”

I felt great waves of horror sweeping over me, for I knew what was coming.

“It is reserved for you,” he said smiling.

“No,” I cried fiercely.

“You have forgotten our bargain already?”

“What purpose would it serve?”

“It would please me, which is the sole purpose of this occasion, is it not?”

“I was not told of this. It was not in the bargain.”

“You were told that you must do as I ask. I am rendering you a great service. It is not easy at a time like this to snatch a man from the hangman’s rope.”

“I must go.”

“Very well. I shall make no effort to detain you. Shall I ring for the woman? She will give you your clothes and I’ll send the carriage back with you to the inn.”

He was watching me sardonically.

“My poor Priscilla! In two days’ time it will be over. You can return to your home … fatherless but virtue retained. You see, I make no effort to hold you. There shall be no force, although in your present vulnerable position that would be easy. No. I have promised myself, she shall come of her own free will. That is the bargain and we shall keep to it.”

“Where will you do this … drawing?”

“I will show you.”

There was yet another room leading from the picture gallery. This was small. There was a couch on it covered with black velvet.

“The contrast of the blackness of the velvet and the colour of the skin is delightful,” he said. “Now. Your cloak, my dear.”

He took it from me and studied me with glinting eyes. I thought he was going to seize me then, but he restrained himself. He just let his hands slide over my body and taking a deep breath said: “Later. This first.”

He made me lie on the couch and put me in the required pose, which I found loathsome. There was an easel at the end of the room.

It was like something out of an impossibly wild dream—myself lying naked on a couch and this strange man, who I was sure was mad, sitting there in the flickering candlelight sketching me.

I wondered what else the night would bring forth.

Whatever it is, I said to myself, I must endure it. Was it true that my father had already been removed from the terrible prison which he would have shared with many others? Had I succeeded even so far in bringing him a little comfort? I could not let a chance of saving my father pass by. I kept telling myself that it was going to succeed.

I heard him speaking. “It is a rough sketch only. I will complete it later. Then we shall know each other more intimately. That is important to the artist.”

I did not look at the sketch. I did not want to see it and he did not offer to show me.

“Now we shall sup,” he said. “It will be ready for us now. You must be hungry.”

“I never felt less hungry.”

“You must not allow the anticipation to spoil your appetite.”

I put on my cloak and we went back to his bedroom. There was a small fire in his bedroom although it was summer. I stared blankly at the blue flames. Several candles had been lighted, and a table set up. Food was set out most tastefully and there was a flask of wine.

He indicated that I should sit down opposite him.

“This is a great occasion for me,” he said. “I have never forgotten you, you know. You looked so young, so innocent, there in St. Mark’s Square … so different from the women one meets so frequently in such places. When I saw you in the shop I had a great desire to be your lover.”

“Should that be marvelled at? Has not such a thought occurred to you a thousand times with a thousand women?”

“I admit that I have a fondness for your sex and I have always had a partiality for the virginal. The young are so appealing. There is an urge in us all to instruct, and if we are skilful at some art, that urge is greater. I have loved women from the time I was ten years old, when I was seduced by one of my family’s servants. I had discovered my métier in life.”

“To be seduced?” I asked.

“You could call it that. But I have become such a master at the art of making love that I have ceased to become the pupil and have taken on the role of tutor.”

“And seducer?”

“When it is necessary. But a man of charm is somewhat sought after, as you can imagine.”

“It is difficult for me to imagine, for no such urge would ever come to me as far as you are concerned.”

“I see I shall be on my mettle. Who knows, you may fall in love with me, and it will not be I who offers rewards for your company, but you for mine.”

“That is completely impossible.”

“Who shall say? This is not quite what you expected, is it?”

“No.”

“You thought I should seize you, debauch you, and that would be all that was asked.”

I was silent.

“But I am a man of cultured tastes,” he went on. “You and I shall share this bed throughout this blessed night, but our encounter shall be one of refinement.”

“Please,” I replied, “if you are a man of refinement and culture, let me go. Show your gallantry, your courtesy, your perfect manners by behaving like a gentleman and generously give me my father’s life and ask nothing in return.”

He stood up and began to pace the floor.

Wild hope surged up in me. I thought: He is strange. Perhaps he is mad. Could it really be that I had touched a softer side of his nature?

He took off his golden wig. He was, as I had thought in Jocelyn’s case, more handsome without it. His short hair curled about his head, and he looked younger, less sinister.

But when he came to the table and I saw him clearly, I was aware of a fanatical gleam in his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said. “Look closely.”

He put his fingers to his brow and I saw the scar from the roots of his hair almost extending to his eyebrow. This had been hidden by the curled wig.

“You see this,” he explained. “I received it in Venice. The night after the Duchessa’s ball. You may remember it.”

I stared at him. I knew that my hopes of getting out of this house unscathed had completely gone. He wanted more than my body. He wanted revenge.

“It was a frolic,” he went on. “A light adventure. A young girl … made for love … unawakened, I thought, adorably innocent. I would initiate her into the ways of love. There would be nothing rough about it.”

“Nothing rough,” I cried. “You dragged me from the ball. I was covered in bruises. And you say nothing rough.”

“I would have been tender to you. You would have been in love with me before the night was out.”

“You have too high an opinion of your powers and no knowledge at all of me.”

“I learned a great deal about you, my prim Priscilla. This man came to rescue you. He took you from me and threw me into the canal. That was not all. The next night he came. I do not care for this kind of brawl. He had me at a disadvantage. This is not the only scar I have to show you. He prated about innocent girls … his little sister … still in the schoolroom … innocent virgin … and so on.”

“It was a wicked thing you tried to do.”

“And for it I am marked for life. And then I discovered the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Surely you know. Our innocent virgin schoolgirl is in Venice for a purpose. She has been guilty of an indiscretion. Now young ladies are often guilty of indiscretions and sometimes they have alarming consequences. Then, if the girl is of good family, heads are put together to discover how best the little matter can be kept secret. The Virgin of Venice was in such a position, so while I was being scarred for life for having made overtures to this saintly child, she was in Venice to bear the little bastard … the result of an adventure with one … perhaps more …”

I had risen from the table. “How dare you!” I cried. “Stop this lewd talk.”

“My dear little would-be virgin, this is my night. I call the tune. Do you remember?”

“How do you know of these matters?”

“That is unimportant. The fact is that I know. But I did not discover until afterwards. At the time I took my punishment, thinking that perhaps it had not been undeserved. Outraged brother … or close relation … who has doubtless had his own adventures is incensed because someone might wish for a similar adventure with his sister. We understand. And then to learn that the girl is nothing but a little harlot … and at her age!”

“It’s untrue.”

“No, it is not, my dear. I learned all I wanted to know. Oh, I had a very good informant.”

“Who was it?”

“That would be telling. The child was born and your good friend, Lady Stevens, pretended it was hers. What a drama! But that does not concern me. What does is that my prim little harlot was posing as an innocent young girl.”

This was becoming more and more like a nightmare. I heard myself saying: “I was going to be married. He died…”

“Yes,” he said, “they always do. So inconsiderate of them. They might wait until after the ceremony before they die. It saves so much trouble.”

“I can see it is no use talking to you.”

“The time for talking is past. Let me fill your glass. Let us drink to the night. I am not sorry. You and I will have much to give each other, I am sure.”

“I shall give you hatred and contempt.”

“Well, that can be very interesting. How angry you are! And surprised, too. It has put a colour into your cheeks, like the roses with which you are so delicately scented. They come from Bulgaria where they are the very best. If I had time I would show you my laboratories. The late King and I shared an interest in them … only he was more interested in pills. We had many interests in common—perhaps the chief was the delights of love. He was a connoisseur, God rest him. But no more so than I, you will discover. You shiver. Is that meant to be with repulsion? I promise you, you shall shiver with delight.”

“I could never delight in you. You have done nothing but insult me from the time I saw you.”

“And in return you deceived me … at first that is. A naughty little girl, pregnant, and posing as an innocent child. Who would have believed it! You owe me something for that and for this”—he pointed to the scar—“and for the other which I shall show you. But come, eat. This is the finest venison, captured in my woods. And drink.”

“Anything at your table nauseates me.”

“I think you are dreading what is to come.”

“I should not be here were it not for my father.”

“You will discover that you have never had a lover such as you will have tonight.”

“It is a discovery I would rather not make.”

“I am making everything so easy for you, am I not? You have been bathed in scented water, anointed with perfumes. Do you like the musk? It has very special properties. It is said to touch the senses and arouse desire. Did you know that?”

“I did not and it certainly has no effect on me.”

“I told you I have my laboratory. Do you know what musk is? It comes from the musk deer. It is a glandular secretion. This deer is found in the mountains of India. It is a scent he carries most strongly during the rutting season and it is irresistible to the female deer. You see that it has these special properties. Of course, we do not use it in the crude form. Ladies are not female deer, are they? But they have the same desires and they can be aroused just as those of the deer can. There is a little pod which is inside the animal’s body. A little hole is made in the skin … just enough for a man’s finger. Thus the pod can be extracted. Don’t look so disgusted. It does no harm to the deer. He goes on living but he probably wonders why he finds it so hard to get a mate. Never mind. His musk is making a beautiful scent to lure some lady from the path of virtue.”

“It is revolting and so are you. I loathe the smell more than ever.”

“That’s what you tell me, but you don’t always tell the truth, do you? What a spectacular piece of acting, to play virgin when you were so clearly different from that. I am pleased with you though, naughty Priscilla. I think I like you better as the scheming woman than as the virgin. You are sly, of course, very sly. But you please me. I am getting impatient now. Come, drink some of this wine.”

I shook my head.

“It has aphrodisiac qualities … like the musk. If you are really not looking forward to the night, it might help you.”

I still shook my head.

“Drink it,” he said, and his manner had changed. “I say drink it. You are here to obey me. Is that not part of the bargain?”

I suddenly felt that it was no use caring any more what happened to me. I was here for a purpose and that must be carried out. There would be no one to rescue me this time and I could not ask to be rescued. I had to save my father.

I drank the wine. I had had nothing to eat and I felt a little dizzy. He was right. The wine would help me endure what had to come.

I heard him laugh softly.

“Come,” he said, “I am ready now.”

I stood up. I felt his hands on my cloak. It slid to the ground. He took off his cloak and stood before me. He touched the angry mark across his chest. “Inflicted by your protector,” he said. “You have to pay a good deal for that.” There was a savage note in his voice. I had to suppress a desire to turn and run. But he had picked me up and thrown me onto the bed.

Even now I cannot bear to think of that night. He was determined to make me pay in full for the thrashing Leigh had given him and for the fact that he, who prided himself on his knowledge of women, had been deceived into thinking a pregnant girl was an innocent virgin. This was what I was paying for, although the bait he offered me was my father’s life.

The man was amoral. He had no feeling for right or wrong. Again and again during that night he reminded me of my need to submit to his will—and every time I dared not disobey.

I tried to disengage myself, to be as one looking on at my other self partaking in these activities. I knew that he was trying to subdue my spirit as well as my body, and it irked him—while it aroused a certain admiration in him—that he could not. He was a strange man. Oddly enough, I trusted him to keep his part of the bargain, although from everything I knew of him, it seemed foolish to expect it. But I did. He was, as he had said, in some ways a man of refined tastes. His scented linen, his well-washed body bore this out. At least I did not have to endure an unwashed lecher. I felt bruised bodily and mentally, and all the time I was telling myself that it must soon pass.

When I saw the first streak of dawn in the sky, I knew my ordeal was coming to an end.

He made no attempt to stop my leaving. I wrapped myself in the cloak and pulled the bell rope. The woman whom I had seen when I arrived came into the room. She looked different without her false pieces of hair and her patches. But she was clean. I was sure that everyone near him must be that.

She took me without a word to the room where I had bathed. There were my clothes. I dressed and she led me out. The carriage was waiting and I was taken back to the inn.

I went straight to my mother’s room and with great relief saw that she was still sleeping. I prayed to God that she had not missed me during the night.

I took off my outdoor clothes and sat down. I shut my eyes. Images from the previous night kept crowding into my mind.

My father will come today, I told myself, and then it will all have been worthwhile.

Yes, it would. What was a night’s humiliation compared with a life, and my father’s life at that!

I thought about him. He was another strange man, a man who had known many women before he married my mother. I believed he had been faithful to her. Christabel was his daughter. He had admitted that. Perhaps he had other children here and there.

Thinking of my father stopped those images. I saw him instead of the handsome, lascivious face of Beaumont Granville which I was sure would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I thought then: I love my father. I love him dearly … perhaps more than I do my mother. Always I had wanted to impress him, to have him take notice of me, to look for me when he came home after an absence. He never had. He never would. I was only the daughter and sons were important to a man such as he was.

Then suddenly I was elated because when he came through the door I could say to myself: I saved you. I brought you home. The daughter you have never thought of much account was the one who saved your life.

I did not care at that moment what I had done. I was glad of it. I had suffered humiliation for his sake and I would do it again.

My mother stirred uneasily during the morning. I sat beside her with a sickening fear in my heart.

Would Granville keep his word? Why should I trust such a man? Was he laughing now because he had deceived me as he had been deceived about me in Venice?

He had sworn that he paid his debts and I still believed he would pay this one. I must believe it. But as the morning wore on terrible doubts came to me.

I thought fiercely, If he has failed me, I will kill him.

It was early in the afternoon when my father walked in.

He was dirty and unkempt. He smelt of the prison. There was death in that smell. He was pale and had lost a great deal of weight. But he was there. He was safe.

“Oh, father!” I cried. “So you are back!”

He nodded. “Your mother …”

I looked towards the bed and he was kneeling there. She opened her eyes. I shall never forget the smile on her face. She was young and beautiful again and they were in each other’s arms.

I stood watching them, but they were unaware of me.