Zipporah's Daughter

A Visit to Eversleigh

GLOOM HAD DESCENDED ON the castle. I could not forget Sophie’s nocturnal visit and I wondered how I could ever get her to accept the truth. I had not realized how much she had resented me. It was only since the coming of Charles, of course; before that she had accepted me as her sister.

Perhaps I had been too taken up with my own affairs to give enough attention to hers. Poor girl, so fearfully scarred, and then to lose the man she was to marry and again to have lost the chance of happiness. I must try to understand.

Marie Louise announced her intention of going into a convent. She had long thought of doing so and now that it was almost certain that her husband was dead, there was nothing to keep her in the château. My father was delighted to see her go. He said he thought it would lessen the gloom a little.

He was very anxious about me.

‘You are pining for Dickon,’ he said.

‘No, no!’ I protested. ‘Nothing of the sort. When he comes he creates … disturbances.’

‘But it is disturbance that makes life worth living for you and without it … is it not a little dull?’

‘I have the children and you.’

‘The children are growing up. Claudine is nearly thirteen years old.’

‘So she is.’ When I was that age I had been overwhelmed by Dickon for some time and had thought of marriage to him. Charlot was almost sixteen and Louis-Charles was a little older than that. It was indeed true that they were growing away from childhood.

‘And you are getting older, my dear,’ went on my father.

‘We all are, of course.’

‘It must be thirty-four years ago when I saw your mother for the first time. It was so romantic … dusk … and she stood there like a phantom from another world. She thought I was a ghost too. I had been hunting for a fob I had lost and I rose up suddenly on that haunted patch of land and really startled her.’

‘I know. You have told me.’

‘I should like to see it all again before I die. Lottie, you should go back. You should go to Eversleigh. You should make up your mind what to do about Dickon. I think you are in love with him. Are you?’

I hesitated. ‘What is love? Is it being excited by someone … enjoying the presence of someone … feeling alive when he is there and yet at the same time knowing too much about him … knowing that he wants power, money … and that he is prepared to do almost anything for them … not quite trusting … ? You see, I am trying to see his inadequacies. Is that love?’

‘Perhaps you are looking for perfection.’

‘Didn’t you look for it … and find it?’

‘I never looked for it because I did not believe it existed. I stumbled on it by chance.’

‘It was because you loved so deeply that you found it. My mother might not have been perfect.’

‘Ah, but she was.’

‘In your eyes, as you were in hers. Were you perfect, Father?’

‘Far from it.’

‘But she thought you were. Perhaps that is love. An illusion. Seeing what is not there and perhaps the more deeply one loves the more one deceives oneself.’

‘My dearest child, I should like to see you happy before I die … even if it means not having you with me. The greatest happiness I have known came through you and your mother. Who would have believed that a chance meeting could lead to that? It was an enchanted night, that one, and she was there and I was there … ’

I leaned over and kissed him. ‘I am glad that we pleased you … my mother and I. You pleased us every bit as much, you know. I loved the man I believed to be my father. He was kind and gentle … but you … you were different. You were so romantic and gallant in your castle. It was wonderful to learn that you were my father.’

He turned away to hide his emotion. Then he said almost brusquely: ‘I don’t want you to go on living here … growing older, wasting your youth. You are not like your mother. You are more able to take care of yourself. She was innocent. She did not see evil. You are not like that, Lottie.’

‘More … earthy,’ I said.

‘I would say more worldly. You know more of men than she did. You would understand the imperfections and bear them, and perhaps even love the more because of them. I think often of Dickon. He is no saint. But do you want a saint? They can be hard to live with. I think you are fond of him in a special way, and will never forget him whatever happens. So he is with you. He is indeed a man full of faults, but brave and strong, I would say. I think he should be the father of a child for you … before it is too late.’

‘I am not going to leave the château. I like it here.’

‘In this gloomy castle with Sophie in her turret casting her own special sort of spell over the place.’

‘The children are happy here.’

‘They will grow up and have lives of their own. I want you go to England.’

‘Go to England? What do you mean? To Eversleigh?’

‘I do. I want you to take the children, to see Dickon in his home, and there to decide what you really want. I think you should go there to discover.’

‘I shall not leave you.’

‘I thought you would say that. That is why I have decided that I will go with you.’

I stared at him in astonishment.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I have promised myself. I too am tired of the château. I want a rest from it. I want to forget what happened to Armand. I want to forget Sophie brooding in her tower. I want a bit of excitement. What do you say that you and I, with the children, cross the water to England?’

I just looked at him in amazement.

He said: ‘You have answered. I can see the joy in your face. That is good. I am going to tell the children at once. There is no reason why we should delay.’

Charlot was wildly excited about the proposed visit to England. So was Claudine. Louis-Charles was so disconsolate that I said we must take him with us, and Lisette agreed that he might go. I was happy listening to them, making plans, talking of England which they had never seen, counting the days.

My father talked to them of what he knew of Eversleigh. Claudine would sit at his feet on a footstool, her arms clasped about her knees as she dreamily stared into space. Charlot plied him with questions; and Louis-Charles listened in the respectful silence he always showed in the presence of the Comte.

It was four days before we were due to leave when my father asked me to walk with him down to the moat. He took my arm and said slowly: ‘Lottie, I cannot make this journey.’

I stopped and stared at him in horror.

‘I have been letting myself pretend I would, shutting my eyes to truth. See how breathless I am climbing this slope? I am not young any more. And if I were ill on the journey … or in England … ’

‘I should be there to take care of you.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Lottie. I know. I have a pain here … round my heart. It is because of this that I want to see you settled.’

I was silent for a moment. Then I said: ‘Have you seen the doctors?’

He nodded. ‘I am no longer young, they tell me. I must accept my fate.’

‘I think a messenger should go to Eversleigh at once. They will be making preparations for us. And I will tell the children now that we are not going.’

‘No! I said I could not go. You and the children must.’

‘Without you?’

He nodded. ‘That is what I have decided … ’

‘And leave you here … sick!’

‘Listen to me, Lottie. I am not sick. I am merely old and unable to make a long and exhausting journey. That is not being sick. I don’t need nursing. If you stay here, there is nothing you can do. You cannot disappoint the children. You will go with them. That is my wish. And I shall stay here. I am well looked after. I have good servants. And you will come back to us in due course.’

I said: ‘This is a blow.’

He stared at the water of the moat and I wondered whether he had ever intended to come.

I couldn’t help being caught up in the young people’s excitement. We set out on horseback, considering the carriage too cumbersome and slow. Claudine rode between the two boys; she was growing very pretty and had a look of my mother. I think that was one of the reasons why she was the Comte’s favourite. She was sturdy, strong-willed and a little resentful of the protective air both boys showed towards her and the fact that they were inclined to treat her as a little girl. Charlot was handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired with a quick alert look; Louis-Charles might have been his brother; they were close friends and got on very well, apart from the occasional disagreement which would end in fisticuffs as they were both hot-tempered.

We stayed a night at an inn which delighted them all, the two boys sharing a room and Claudine coming in with me. She was awake at dawn, eager to get on with the journey and making me rise with her.

She said: ‘There is only one thing missing to make this perfect. That is Grand’père.’

‘Pray don’t call him a thing,’ I said. ‘He would not appreciate that.’

We both laughed, but sadly because he was not with us.

The sea crossing provided a further delight to them and when we landed on English soil they could talk of nothing but Eversleigh. Dickon was at Dover to escort us to the house and there was wild excitement when Claudine flung herself at him and hugged him while the boys stood by grinning. Over Claudine’s head Dickon smiled at me, his eyes warm, but I did detect a hint of triumph in them and I thought: Even now he is thinking of winning.

But a visit did not mean that I had made up my mind. Perhaps I had been foolish to come. I had a fear that I was going to be swept off my feet, unable to make clear decisions, and I knew I must be wary of Dickon. He had the effect on me of potent wine.

Such memories came back. It was long since I had seen Eversleigh, but it always gave me a feeling of home. I did not know why that should be so since most of my life in England had been spent at Clavering. But this was the home of my ancestors. It seemed to wrap itself around me; it seemed to say: You have come home. Stay home. Home is the place for you.

Sabrina was waiting with a very warm welcome. She was as excited as the young people.

‘What a lovely house!’ cried Charlot.

‘It is not a castle,’ added Louis-Charles a trifle disparagingly.

‘Houses are really what you should live in,’ put in Claudine. ‘Castles are for sieges and holding out against the enemy.’

‘Some of our houses had to do that during the Civil War,’ said Sabrina. ‘But let me show you your rooms and you can explore the house later on. I am sure you will like it. It’s rambling and full of odd nooks and crannies. Your mother knows it well. It was once her home.’

Dickon said he would show them round in the morning when it was light.

We went to our rooms. I had my old one. I felt a twinge of sadness as I ascended the stairs because the last time I had been here my grandmother had been alive … so had my mother.

Sabrina knew what I was thinking. She said: ‘Your grandmother died peacefully. She never really got over Zipporah’s death.’

‘My father never has,’ I said.

‘I know.’ She pressed my hand. ‘But, Lottie, my dear, she wouldn’t want you to be sad while you are here. She would be so delighted that you had come.’

My old room. It must be more than ten years since I had been in it but it was still familiar to me.

Sabrina said: ‘Come down when you have washed and changed. We are eating almost immediately. Dickon thought you would be in need of a good meal.’

I washed and changed from my riding habit, and when I went downstairs I could hear the sounds of excited talking and laughter. The others were already in the punch-room close to the dining-room where, I remembered, they assembled before meals. I could hear Claudine’s high-pitched voice and the gruffer masculine ones.

I went in. There was a brief silence and then Dickon said: ‘You remember the twins, Lottie.’

Dickon’s sons! They must be almost twenty. Could that really be possible? I always thought of Dickon as being perpetually young. He must be forty-three. I had a sensation of time rushing past. My father was right. If we were ever going to make a life together, it should be soon.

I remembered David and Jonathan well. They had a look of Dickon and there was a certain resemblance in them which one would expect of twins. Jonathan took my hand first and kissed it; then David did the same.

‘I remember you came here once before,’ said Jonathan.

‘My dear boy,’ said Dickon, ‘she lived here. It was her home.’

‘It must be interesting to come back to a place which was once your home, especially when you haven’t seen it for so long,’ said David.

‘It is very interesting indeed,’ I told him; ‘but best of all to see you and your family.’

‘Don’t talk about my family, Lottie,’ protested Dickon. ‘It is your family as well.’

‘That’s true,’ said Sabrina. ‘Now we are all here, shall we go in? Our cook is a little temperamental and throws a tantrum in the kitchen if we let the food get cold.’

We went to the dining-room with its tapestried walls and oak table lighted by two candelabra—one at each end. It looked very beautiful. Sabrina set at one end of it and Dickon at the other; she had placed me on Dickon’s right hand. Claudine was between David and Jonathan who, I could see, were amused by her bilingual conversation. She could speak English very well, for I had taught her, but she kept forgetting that she was in England and breaking into French with results which the twin brothers seemed to find hilarious. Louis-Charles had always been a young man who knew how to take care of himself and he and Sabrina chatted together in a mixture of bad French from Sabrina and execrable English from Louis-Charles. Dickon devoted himself to me. He was watching me intently, I knew, proud of this gracious dining-room, of the meal which was served, of the fact that I had at last succumbed to his repeated requests to visit Eversleigh.

It was a happy evening and when it was time to retire, Claudine voiced the feelings of us all when she said: ‘It is wonderful for us to be here. But I don’t think I shall ever get to sleep tonight. I am too excited.’

Sabrina insisted on accompanying me to my room. She shut the door and sat down in one of the armchairs.

‘I can’t tell you how happy we are to have you here, Lottie. Dickon has always talked a lot about you and every time he went to France he said he was going to bring you back with him. I gather things are not very happy over there.’

‘There is a good deal of rumour.’

She nodded. ‘Dickon is full of foreboding. He has been saying for some time that you ought to get out.’

‘I know. He has mentioned it to me.’

‘Well … this is your home, you know.’

I shook my head. ‘My home is over there.’

‘I was sorry your father could not come with you.’

‘So were we all.’

‘Dickon says he is a very fine gentleman.’

‘Dickon is right,’

‘But he is getting old, of course. After all, you are English, Lottie.’

‘My father is French.’

‘Yes, but you were brought up here. There was never anyone more English than your mother.’

‘And never anyone more French than my father.’ I smiled at her. ‘You see, that makes me a mixture. I love Eversleigh. I love it here … but my husband was French and my children are. That is my home, over there.’

She sighed and said: ‘I am very sad sometimes. Your grandmother and I were very close, you know.’

‘I do know that.’

‘Now she is gone I miss her terribly.’

‘I know that. But you have Dickon.’

A smile illumined face. ‘Oh yes … Dickon. How I should love to see him completely happy. It was your grandmother’s dearest wish … ’

I interrupted her. ‘Yes, I know. She adored him.’

‘He is a wonderful person. It is a long time since poor Isabel died. People think it is strange that he did not marry again.’

I said with a sudden burst of anger which Dickon could arouse in me: ‘Perhaps a good enough proposition did not arise. He had Eversleigh, Clavering and a great deal, I gather, from Isabel … ’

Sabrina was the same as ever. In her mind, Dickon was above criticism and she did not see it even when it was blatantly expressed.

‘I know why he has never married,’ she said.

‘Well he has two sons. That is one reason why ambitious people marry, isn’t it?’

‘I remember in the days long ago when you were a child staying with us at Clavering—do you remember? You two were always together.’

‘I remember. That was after my mother inherited Eversleigh.’

‘He was so fond of you. We all were. He talked of nothing but Lottie … his little Lottie. And you … to you he was the sun, moon and stars and the whole universe thrown in.’

‘Children get fancies.’

‘It is rather charming when they persist through life.’

I said: ‘Dickon knows that my half-brother disappeared. It is some little time ago now. His body was never found but because of the situation in France we think he was murdered. My father is a very wealthy man. I have heard it said that he is one of the most wealthy in France. Charlot will inherit in time, but it will come to me first when my father dies … ’

She looked blank.

‘Dickon was very interested in the estate. I always remember how he came here to Eversleigh. He was just overwhelmed by it because it was so much grander than Clavering. I imagined Aubigné is much more valuable than Eversleigh, so you see he has discovered a great affection for me.’

‘He admired Eversleigh. Of course he did. Who wouldn’t? But he loved you, Lottie. He truly did. He never ceased to. I think he is unhappy at times. Do you know, my great desire in life is to see him happy.’

‘I know that,’ I told her. ‘Sabrina, you must be the most doting mother in the world.’

She smiled at me and said: ‘Well, I am keeping you from your bed and you must be so tired.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Good night, my dear. It is lovely to have you here. We are going to do our best not to let you go from us, Lottie.’

She paused at the door. ‘By the way, do you remember poor Griselda?’

‘Yes, I do. She kept Isabel’s rooms as they were at the time of her death. She was a little uncanny.’

‘She took a dislike to Dickon and spread tales about him and Isabel. She was so jealous of anyone who came between her and Isabel. We tried to stop her, but she was too old … senile really. It was a happy release when she went.’

‘So she is no longer with us?’

‘It must be all of five years since she died. The rooms have been thoroughly cleaned out and it is all very normal up there now.’

‘As you say,’ I murmured, ‘a happy release.’

She put her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss to me. ‘Goodnight, dear Lottie. Pleasant dreams. Don’t forget we are going to do everything we can to keep you with us.’

As Claudine had said, we were too excited to sleep that night.

I was happy at Eversleigh. I knew I was going to miss it when I went away. There was something about the green fields and the May sunshine that was essentially England and not quite the same anywhere else in the world. I loved the way the sun would rapidly be obscured and if we were out we would have to take shelter from the sudden showers.

It was the end of May and the April showers seemed to be lingering longer than usual this year. The hedges were full of simple wild flowers and I remembered how, when I was very young, my mother had taught me how to make a daisy-chain. I remembered the names of plants like silverweed, bird’s-foot trefoil, and lady’s-smock. I rode a great deal with Dickon and the boys. We were a merry party.

Sabrina would come in the carriage and we would meet at some special beauty spot where we would have a picnic. We went to the sea; but I liked the country best, for the sea reminded me of that land only just over twenty miles away where my father would be counting the days until our return. The sea reminded me, too, that this was ephemeral, and I was realizing with every passing day that I wanted it to go on.

I wanted to forget that Dickon loved power and money more than anything else, that he had married Isabel for what she could bring him, and that her faithful nurse had accused him of murder; and although there was such happiness at Eversleigh there were dark shadows too. I thought a great deal about Isabel, and those months when she was awaiting the birth of babies that did not come and the two who had killed her. How frightened she must have been, poor Isabel! It was as though her ghost had remained behind to come to me in quiet moments and sometimes very happy ones to remind me.

Dickon was constantly there. Charlot admired him very much, so did Louis-Charles who was very happy at Eversleigh. Lisette had never really given him that deep mother love which children need; she had not wanted him and had so disliked the farmer whom she had married that she must see that period of her life often through Louis-Charles. He threw himself into the life of Eversleigh and he and Charlot often went off together and came back with stories of the inns they had visited and the towns through which they had passed.

Claudine loved Eversleigh too. She went riding with the rest of them on some days and was delighted when Jonathan taught her how to take high jumps. I was a little worried about her, but Dickon said she had to learn and Jonathan would take care of her. She enjoyed the attention of both twins and I fancied rather revelled in bestowing her attentions first on one, then on the other. At Eversleigh it was brought home to me more than ever how fast my daughter was growing up.

Time was flying past.

‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying,

And this same flower that blooms today

Tomorrow will be dying …’

sang Sabrina, as she sat at the spinet and I knew that she meant me to take heed.

Dickon was constantly with me, but he was clever. He did not suggest that I stay. He wanted Eversleigh to work its own magic on me.

I was conscious, too, of the peace of the countryside. There was a quietness in the air and I realized how different it was in that land from which that strip of water divided us. When I looked at those waves lapping on the shore, sometimes grey and angry, sometimes blue and gently swishing, I thought it was the great divide between this peaceful happy life and that of suspense and brooding menace.

I knew, when I was alone in my bedroom at night, that I wanted to be here, to stay here. It was my home, my country. And Dickon was here. If I were truthful I must admit I wanted Dickon.

Sabrina was watchful. To her Dickon was the whole meaning of life. She was blind to his faults; she thought he was perfect. Surely she must know what he was really like. Did she refuse to see it because she did not want to? She adjusted all his actions to fit her perfect picture of him. Her face changed when he appeared. Her eyes would follow him, her mouth curved in gentle contentment.

‘Nobody,’ I once said to Dickon, ‘has any right to be adored as your mother adores you. It’s irreligious. It’s blasphemous. I really do believe she thinks you are greater than God.’

He did refer then to his plans. He said: ‘There is only one thing needed to make me absolutely perfect in her eyes.’

‘Nonsense,’ I retorted. ‘There is nothing. You are that already.’

‘Yes, there is. She wants me to be happily married and nobody will be quite right for Sabrina but you.’

‘God is perfect … omnipotent, omniscient … and that is you in Sabrina’s eyes. Never mind whomsoever you marry, provided it is your choice; that will be good enough for Sabrina.’

‘It won’t be. It has to be you, for she knows that you are the only one for me. Therefore you are for her. Give her her heart’s desire. She is a lady who likes everything to be well ordered, neatly rounded off. She took the husband your grandmother Clarissa wanted, and although to her her marriage was perfect—you see, she finds perfection in her relationships—she was always worried because she took him from Clarissa. Now if Clarissa’s granddaughter married the son of that other Dickon whom both Clarissa and Sabrina loved, it would be a neat rounding off, wouldn’t it? Everyone can say amen and be happy.’

I laughed. ‘Except perhaps the two who had to bring about this neat solution.’

‘They would be happiest of all. You are learning that, Lottie. I have always known it.’

‘Oh, I remember. You were always omniscient. I shall have to go back to my father soon.’

‘We will bring him over here. I assure you that in a very short time men in his position will be giving everything they have to get away from the coming storm.’

That was the only time he mentioned our marriage. He let Eversleigh do the rest and more and more every day I longed to give in.

One night after I had retired there was a knock on my door and Sabrina came in.

‘I was afraid you might have gone to bed,’ she said. ‘I want you to have a look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a diary.’

‘Oh … an old one? One of those family ones?’

‘Not those weighty journals. This is quite a slim volume, you see. When Griselda died we found it in Isabel’s room. It was caught up at the back of a drawer, otherwise I am sure Griselda would never have allowed it to fall into our hands.’

‘A diary! I always thought it was like prying to read other people’s diaries.’

‘So do I. But I did read this one. I felt it was important, and I do think it is important that you should see it.’

‘Why me?’

She laid the book on the table beside my bed and I felt reluctant to touch it.

‘Because I think you may have some misconception. This is the truth. It must be, because it was written by Isabel herself.’

‘Has Dickon seen it?’

‘No. I did not think that was necessary. I did give it to the twins, though. Griselda used to make a great deal of Jonathan. She used to have him to her room.’

‘Yes. I do remember that.’

‘She had a crazy notion that David killed Isabel. I suppose it was the second birth which weakened her, but Griselda—mad old woman—actually blamed David. That shows how senile she was.’

‘Yes. I see what you mean.’

‘Read it,’ she said. ‘I think it will tell you a great deal.’

She kissed me and left me.

The reluctance to open the book persisted. Diaries contained private thoughts. Perhaps it held an account of Dickon’s meeting with her, their early life together. In view of my own strong feelings for Dickon I found the thought of prying quite distasteful.

However I got into bed and lighted an extra candle, opened the book and started to read.

I became absorbed almost immediately. I was seeing Isabel clearly—the quiet, shy daughter of a powerful man—a man who loved her and wanted the best for her but who really did not understand what was the best.

There were references to Griselda. She was mentioned on every page. There were intimate little details.

‘Griselda curled my hair in rags last night. I found it hard to sleep for them, but Griselda said I must keep them in so that I had curls next day.’ ‘Griselda has put a blue fichu on my white dress. It looks rather pretty.’ There were accounts of assemblies she had been to. She wrote of her dread of them, her painful shyness. I went on reading until I came to the entry about Dickon.

Today I met the most handsome man I have ever seen. He is in London from the country where, my father says, he owns a large estate. He asked me to dance and I did … most awkwardly. He said he wasn’t much of a dancer either and he didn’t mind my mistakes at all. He talked a great deal, so cheerily and wittily. I couldn’t keep up with him. My father was very pleased.

Yesterday my father sent for me and I knew he had something very serious to say because he called me ‘Daughter’. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘you have a suitor.’ Then he told me it was Richard Frenshaw. It is that wonderful man who danced with me. I don’t know how I feel. I am in a panic and yet it might have been that horrible old Lord Standing. Instead it is this wonderful, handsome man. ‘But,’ I said to Griselda, ‘at least Lord Standing would not have minded that I am not clever and that my hair will not curl unless it is all night in rags, and that I stumble when I dance and am shy.’ Griselda said, Nonsense. He would be lucky to get me, and he knew it. I had a great fortune coming to me and that was when men liked. Moreover she would always be with me. That was my great comfort.

There were several entries about the clothes which were being made and the announcement of the engagement at a ball given by her father. There were meetings with Dickon—brief and never alone. And then the entry: ‘Tomorrow I am to marry Richard Frenshaw.’

Evidently after that she had not written in it for a long time. Then there were the brief entries.

‘This afternoon it rained and there was some thunder.’ ‘Went to the Charletons’ ball.’ ‘We had a dinner party for twenty.’ Just bald statements with very little hint of what she was feeling. Then it changed.

Another disappointment. Shall I ever achieve my heart’s desire? If I could have a little baby it would make up for everything. Dickon wants a boy. All men do. I wouldn’t mind what it was … just a baby. That’s what I want.

I saw Dr Barnaby today. He said there should be no more pregnancies and that he should speak to my husband. I begged him not to. I told him how much having a child meant to me. He shook his head and kept saying, ‘No. No.’ Then he said: ‘You have tried and failed. You did your best. Now, no more.’ They don’t understand, I must have a child. If I don’t I shall have lost Dickon completely. It is the only way.

There is to be another chance. Griselda will be angry. She hates Dickon because of this. It is silly of her, but then she is silly sometimes. I know it is only because of her feeling for me, but she is so difficult. She gets so anxious and worried. She frightens me. I haven’t told her yet. I haven’t told anyone. I want to be sure. I am determined this time my child will be born.

They know. Dickon is delighted. That makes me so happy. He takes a lot of notice of me and makes me take care of myself. I could be happy if only … But it will be all right this time. It must be.

Dr Barnaby has been today. I have had a long talk with him. He is concerned about my condition. He says he should not have allowed me to dissuade him from speaking to my husband. ‘However,’ he said, ‘it is done. You must be very careful. You must rest and rest. If you can get through the first three months we can still hope.’

Three months … and all is well. How I long for the time to pass. Every morning I awake and I say to myself rather like someone in the Bible: ‘I am with child. God be praised.’

My time is getting near. I have dreams … sometimes nightmares. It is because of all those failures. I saw Dr Barnaby today. I had a long talk with him. I said to him: ‘I must have this child. More than anything I want it.’ ‘I know that,’ he replied. ‘Now pray don’t get upset. It is bad for the little one.’ ‘I have had so many disappointments,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t bear another.’ ‘Do as you are told,’ he answered, ‘and it will very likely be all right.’ ‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘there is a choice between mother and child. If there is a choice I want it to be the child who is saved.’ ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he said. But I knew I wasn’t. I said, ‘I want you to promise me … ’ He looked exasperated and I remembered how he used to frighten me when I was a little girl and I hadn’t taken my physic. ‘This is nonsense,’ he said sternly. ‘You are worrying yourself about something which hasn’t happened.’ But I refused to be frightened of him. I insisted, ‘But it may. I have had difficult pregnancies, all of which so far have ended in disaster. I know that if I failed this time there would not be another chance. I want you to promise me … that if this situation should arise you will save the child and let me go.’ ‘These matters are for a doctor to decide when they happen,’ he said. ‘I know,’ I cried. ‘I am saying if … if … if … !’ ‘You are getting agitated,’ he said, ‘and that is bad for the child.’ ‘I shall be more agitated until I have your promise.’ ‘This is very unethical,’ he said severely. But I would not let him go. I made him swear. I brought my Bible to him, for I knew he was a very religious man, and only when he began to get alarmed for my state did he swear. He said, ‘If such a contingency should arise—and there is no reason to believe it will—and if there should be a choice between the lives of the mother or the child, then I swear I will save the child.’ He stayed by me for five minutes until he had satisfied himself that I was calm. I was calm, calm and happy, for something told me that whatever happened there would be a child.’

There was one more entry.

The time is near. It could be any time now. Today I went and looked at my nursery. The cradle is ready for the child. I had a vision. It was so strange. The cradle seemed to be surrounded by light and I knew there was a healthy child in it. I did not see myself. It seemed unimportant. The child was there.

I laid down the book. I was deeply moved.

The next morning Sabrina looked at me expectantly, when I put Isabel’s diary in her hands.

I told her how touched I had been.

‘She was such a dear, good girl. I remember it so well. She was so long in labour. Jonathan was born easily enough. It was David. They had to take him away from her and she didn’t survive. Dr Barnaby was very unhappy. When I saw the diary I knew why. I often wondered if he could have saved Isabel at the cost of David. It would not have occurred to me to think so if I had not read the diary. But I wanted you to see it because of Griselda. I think it turned her brain. Isabel with her child … the whole meaning of life to her. When she lost her there was nothing to live for, so she went back to the past. She was bitter and angry and she blamed Dickon. She had it in her mind that there had been a choice between Isabel and the baby and that Dickon had made the choice to save the child. She called him a murderer. I wondered whether Isabel had ever mentioned her own feelings to Griselda. It was clearly very much on her mind, as you see from the diary. It was dreadful to live in the house with that. I wanted to turn her away but your grandmother was against it, and I don’t think Griselda could have gone on living if she hadn’t had Isabel’s things to brood on. It was a great relief when she died.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

‘There was a time when I thought she would do David some harm. And she made too much of Jonathan. It was almost as though she was trying to set the boys against each other … and certainly against their father. If only … ’

She was looking at me appealingly.

‘Lottie,’ she went on, ‘if you came back to us, it would be like a fresh start for us all. It was what we wanted, your grandmother and I. It was only your mother who was against it. You were blaming Dickon, weren’t you? Griselda had told you something. But you don’t believe her now, do you?’

I said: ‘I see clearly what happened through Isabel’s diary.’

‘You know that there was nothing callous about Dickon’s behaviour to her. He was always kind to her. It wasn’t his fault that he was not in love with her.’

‘I know.’

She bent over and kissed me.

‘I am glad you understand now,’ she said.

I did. I saw clearly that in this respect I had wronged Dickon.

They were winning me over.

A few days later Dickon was called to London.

‘I shall be away for a week at most,’ he said.

I asked Sabrina what sort of business he had in London.

She was vague. ‘Oh, he inherited a lot of property through Isabel.’

‘I knew she was very rich and that was the reason for the marriage.’

She looked at me sharply. ‘Isabel’s father was very eager for the marriage. So was Isabel herself. There was a very big settlement and when her father died a great deal came to Isabel.’

‘And now to Dickon,’ I said. ‘Is it something to do with banking?’

‘Something like that,’ said Sabrina. ‘He goes often. Not so much of late because you are here, I expect. But he travels a good deal normally. He was very concerned in all that about the American War.’

‘Yes, I gathered that. He came to France because the French were helping the Colonists.’

‘He came to France to see you,’ said Sabrina fondly.

It was only two days after Dickon had left when the messenger came bringing a letter from Lisette, and I knew that something was wrong before I opened it.

‘You should leave at once,’ she had written. ‘Your father is very ill indeed. He was calling for you when he was delirious. He has said that we are not to send for you but we thought you would want to know. I think, if you want to see him before he dies, you should return at once.’

Sabrina had seen the messenger arrive and came down to see what it was all about.

‘It’s my father,’ I said. ‘He is dangerously ill.’

‘Oh, my dear Lottie!’

‘I must go to him at once,’ I said.

‘Yes … yes, of course. Dickon will be back soon. Wait and hear what he has to say.’

‘I must leave at once,’ I said firmly.

The messenger was standing by. Sabrina pointed out that he looked exhausted and called one of the servants to take him to the kitchens and give him food. He would want to rest too.

When they had gone she turned to me.

‘I don’t think Dickon would want you to go back. He has talked to me about the state of France and was so glad that you had left at last.’

‘This has nothing to do with Dickon,’ I said. ‘I am going and I shall leave tomorrow.’

‘Lottie, you can’t!’

‘I can and I must. Oh Sabrina, I am sorry but you must understand. This is my father. He needs me. I should never have left him.’

‘You said that he wanted you to come, didn’t you?’

‘He did because … ’

‘I dare say he thought you were safer here. He would know … as Dickon did.’

I wanted to stop her talking about Dickon. I was going and that was it. I could not possibly stay here while I knew my father was ill …dying, perhaps, and calling for me.

‘I am going to get ready immediately,’ I said.

She caught my arm. ‘Wait, Lottie. Don’t be so hasty. Suppose I sent someone to London to tell Dickon.’

‘It would take too long and this has nothing to do with Dickon.’

‘He will be upset if you go.’

‘Then he must be upset because I am going.’

‘The children … ’ she said.

I hesitated. Then I made up my mind. ‘They can stay here if you will allow it. They can come home later. I will go alone and as quickly as I can.’

‘My dear Lottie, I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. Dickon … ’

‘I will go and see the messenger. He can have a good night’s rest and I will go back with him. He will start first thing in the morning.’

‘If only Dickon were here!’

‘Nothing would stop me, Sabrina. The children will be happy here. They must stay?’

‘Of course. Of course.’

‘Perhaps Dickon and you, too, will come back with them and stay for a while at the château.’

She looked at me fearfully. ‘If you are intent on going you must take two grooms with you. There are certain things you will want to take for a journey … and it will be safer. You must do that. I insist.’

‘Thank you, Sabrina,’ I said, and I went to the kitchens to find the messenger.