Winsor, Kathleen (2 page)

It
was mid-June before he was able to keep his promise. Then, making up some story
to tell her mother, she rode out to meet him by the little stream which ran
between the two properties. It was the first time in all the years they had
known each other that they had been perfectly alone, free, and unwatched; and
though Judith had felt apprehensive and nervously embarrassed—now she was off
her horse and into his arms without hesitation or misgiving. Never before had
she felt so sure of herself, so right and content.

"I
haven't long, Judith," he said swiftly, kissing her. "I shouldn't be
here at all— But I had to see you! Here—let me look at you. Oh, how pretty you
are—prettier even than I remembered!"

She
clung to him desperately, thinking that she could never let him go again.
"Oh, John! John, darling—how I've missed you!"

"It's
wonderful
to hear you say that! I've been afraid— But it doesn't matter,
does it—that our parents are quarreling? We love each other just the
same—"

"Just
the same?" she cried, her throat choking with tears of happiness and
dread. "Oh, John! We love each other more! I never knew how much I loved
you till you were gone and I was afraid that— Oh, this terrible, terrible war!
I hate it!

When
will it end, John? Will it end soon?" She looked up at him like a little
girl begging a favour, and her blue eyes were large and wistful and frightened.

"Soon,
Judith?"

His
face darkened and for several moments he was quiet while she watched him
anxiously, fear creeping through her.
"Won't
it be soon,
John?"

He
slipped one arm about her waist and they started to walk, slowly, toward the
river. The sky was blue with great puffs of fleecy clouds, as though a shower
had just cleared; the air was full of moisture and the smell of damp earth.
Along the banks grew delicate alder and willow trees and white dogwood was in
bloom.

"I
don't think it will be over soon, Judith," he said finally. "It may
last a great while longer—perhaps for years."

Judith
stopped, and looked up at him incredulously. At seventeen, six months was an
age, one year eternity. She could not and would not face the prospect of years
going by in this way, separated.

"For
years, John!" she cried. "But it can't! What will we do? We'll be old
before we even begin to live! John—" Suddenly she grabbed him by the
forearms. "Take me with you! We can be married now. Oh, I don't care how I
have to live—" she said quickly as she saw him begin to interrupt.
"Other women go with the camp, I know they do, and I can go too! I'm not
afraid of anything—I can—"

"Judith,
darling—" His voice was pleading, his eyes tender and full of anguish.
"We can't get married now. I wouldn't do that to you for anything in the
world. Of course there are women following the camp—but not women like you,
Judith. No, darling—there's nothing for us to do but wait— It'll end some day—
It can't go on forever—"

Suddenly
everything that had happened this past year seemed real to her and sharp and
with permanent meaning. He was going away, soon, this very day—and when would
she see him again? Perhaps not for years—perhaps never— Suppose he was killed—
She checked herself swiftly at that, not daring even to admit the possibility.
There was no use pretending any longer. The War
was
real. It
was
going
to affect their lives. It had already changed everything she had ever hoped for
or believed in—it could still take away her future, deny her the simplest wants
and needs—

"But,
John!" she cried now, bitter and protesting. "What will happen to us
then? What will you do if the King wins? And what will become of me if
Parliament wins? Oh, John, I'm scared! How is it going to end?"

John
turned his head, his jaw setting. "God, Judith, I don't know. What do
people do with their lives when a war ends? We'll work it out someway, I
suppose."

Suddenly
Judith covered her face with her hands and began to cry, all the loneliness
that was past and still to come flooding
up within her, bursting out of her
control. And John took her into his arms again, trying to soothe and comfort
her.

"Don't
cry, Judith darling. I'll come back to you. Someday we'll have our home and our
family. Someday we'll have each other—"

"Someday,
John!" Her arms caught at him desperately, her face was frightened and her
eyes reckless. "Someday! But what if someday never comes!"

An
hour later he was gone and Judith rode back to the house, happy and at peace,
content as never before in her life. For now—no matter what happened, no matter
who won or lost the war—they were sure of each other. Sometimes they might have
to be apart, but they could never be really separated again. Life seemed
simpler to her, and more complete.

At
first the thought of seeing her mother again, of looking her squarely in the
face, confused and frightened her. She felt as she had when she was a little
girl and Lady Anne had always known—even without seeing her at it—whether she
had been into mischief. But after the first few uncomfortable days were safely
past Judith let herself settle into the luxury of remembering. Every smile,
every kiss and touch, each phrase of love, she brought forth again and again
like precious keepsakes, to solace her empty hours, comfort her doubts, banish
the dark enclosing fears.

Only
a month later news came of a great Royalist victory at Roundway Down and Lord
William wrote his wife to expect peace at any time. Judith's hopes soared with
wild optimism, heedless of Lady Anne's stern warning that neither John
Mainwaring nor any member of his family would ever set foot on Rose Lawn again.
If only the war would end, no matter
how
it ended, they would work out
their problems someway. John had said so.

And
then she realized that she was pregnant.

For
some time she had been noticing strange symptoms, and though she believed at
first that it was only some slight indisposition, finally she knew. The shock
sent her to bed for several days. She could not eat and grew pale and thinner,
and whenever her mother was in the room she lay watching her with sick
apprehension, dreading each glance, each sentence, sure that she saw suspicion
in her eyes and heard contempt in her voice. She did not dare think what would
happen if they should ever find out. For her father's temper and prejudices
were so violent he would surely seek John out and try to kill him. Somehow,
before it became noticeable, she must get away—go to John, no matter where he
was. She could not give birth to an illegitimate child; it would be a stain
upon the honour of her family which nothing could ever erase.

Lord
William came back in September, jubilant with tales of Royalist success.
"They won't be able to hold against us another month," he insisted.
And Judith, who had had not a word from John, listened to her father eagerly—hoping
to
hear
at least the mention of his name, some hint that he was alive and unhurt. But
if Lord William knew anything about him he did not speak of it before Judith,
and her mother was equally uncommunicative. Both of them pretended to be
unaware that John Mainwaring existed or had ever existed.

Then
she was told that they had selected a husband for her.

He
was Edmund Mortimer, Earl of Radclyffe. Judith had met him a year and a half
before, when he had paid a visit to Rose Lawn. He was thirty-five years old,
not long widowed, and the father of a baby son. She remembered little except
that she had not liked him. He was no more than five feet six or seven inches
tall, with delicate bones and head too large for his narrow shoulders and thin
body. His features were aristocratic, narrow-nosed and tight-lipped, and though
his eyes were hard and cold they reflected a trained, austere intelligence.
These were not qualities to recommend him to a girl of seventeen whose heart
was full of a handsome, virile, gallant young man. And something about the
Earl, she did not know what, repelled her. She would not have wanted him for a
husband even if she had never seen John Mainwaring.

"I
don't want to get married," she said, half surprised at her own audacity.

Her
father stared at her, his eyes beginning to glitter dangerously, but just as he
opened his mouth to speak Lady Anne told her to leave the room, adding that she
would talk to her later. Judith's sulky stubbornness angered and surprised her
parents. Nevertheless they went briskly ahead with plans for the wedding, and
did not consult her again, for they were convinced that the sooner she was
married and began to get John Mainwaring out of her head the better it would be
for everyone concerned.

Her
wedding-gown, made a year and a half ago for her marriage to John, was taken
out of its trunk, brushed and pressed and hung up in her room. It was heavy
white satin, embroidered all over with seed pearls. The deep collar and cuffs
were cream-coloured lace, and the slit skirt draped up in back over a petticoat
of luminous, crusty silver-cloth. Handmade in France, it was a beautiful and
very expensive gown, and at first she had loved it. Now she could not even
bring herself to try it on, and passionately told her nurse that she would as
soon be fitted for her own shroud.

Some
time later the Earl arrived and Judith, though she had been warned repeatedly
to show him all respect and affection, refused to do either. She avoided him
whenever she could, spoke to him coldly, and cried in her own room for hours
without end. The fourth month of her pregnancy had passed and she was in
constant terror of being discovered, though her full skirts would certainly
give no hint for several weeks longer. Worry and anxiety had made her thin; she
jumped nervously at the slightest unexpected sound and was quiet and moody and
easily irritated.

What's
going to happen to me? she would think wildly as she stood by the windows,
hoping, praying to see John or some messenger sent by him come riding up over
the hill to save her. But no one came. Since June she had not heard from him.
She did not even know whether he was alive or dead.

Her
relief was intense, if guilty, when—less than a fortnight before the day set
for the wedding—news arrived that the Parliamentarians had attacked a great
house twenty miles to the southeast, and the Earl rode off with her father.

Rose
Lawn lay on the boundary which separated Royalist territory from that held by
Parliament, and news of an attack so near had ominous significance. The house
had been kept in readiness for any possible emergency since the beginning of
the war and now, following her husband's instructions, Lady Anne began to make
preparations for a siege. It was not unusual for a few women and old men to
stave off an attacking force for weeks or months, and no one who knew Lady Anne
could doubt that if Rose Lawn were to be besieged she would hold it until every
last child and dog was dead of starvation.

The
following night there was a sudden alarm from the watch. The women began to
scream with terror, thinking that the moment had come; children bawled and dogs
barked; somewhere a musket went off. Judith leaped from the bed, flung on a
dressing-gown, and rushed out to find her mother. She discovered her downstairs
in conversation with a farmer, and as she appeared Lady Anne turned and handed
her a sealed letter. Judith gave a little gasp and her face turned white, but
even under her mother's cold and accusing eyes she could not mask the
passionate gratitude and relief she felt. It must be from John. While she tore
open the seal and began to read, Lady Anne dismissed the farmer.

"In
a few days we will attack Rose Lawn. I cannot prevent the attack but I can
carry you and her Ladyship to a place of safety. Bring nothing with you that
will make travelling difficult and wait at the mouth of the river beneath the
house as soon as it is dark tomorrow night. I won't be able to see you, but I
have a servant I can trust and I have made arrangements for you to be cared for
until I can come to you."

Judith
raised her eyes to her mother's and then slowly, as if by compulsion, she
handed her the letter. Lady Anne gave it a quick glance, crossed the room and
threw it into the fire. She turned back to face her daughter.

"Well?"
she said at last.

Impulsively
Judith ran toward her. "Oh, madame, we've got to go! If we stay here we
may be killed! He'll take us where we'll both be safe!"

"I
do not intend to leave my home at such a time as this. And certainly I will not
accept the protection of an enemy." Her eyes watched Judith coldly. She
looked proud, indestructible, and a little cruel. "Make your own choice,
Judith, but
make it carefully. For if you do I shall tell your father that you were
captured. We will never see you again."

Judith
had a moment of intense longing to tell her mother what had happened. If only
she could explain it to her somehow, could make her understand how truly they
loved each other— how impossible it was to stifle that love merely because
England was at war— But looking into Lady Anne's eyes she knew that her mother
would never understand, that she would only despise and condemn her. The
decision was hers to make, and there could be no explanation once she had made
it.