Winsor, Kathleen (3 page)

With
only one extra gown and her few jewels, she left Rose Lawn. All that night she
and the servant travelled and by mid-morning of the following day had come to a
farmhouse in Essex which was well within the borders of Parliamentary
domination. There she was introduced to Sarah and Matthew Goodegroome as Judith
St. Claire, wife of John St. Claire, who had left her home because of a quarrel
between her family and her husband's. Sarah knew that she was a lady of quality
but did not know her rank; and Judith, according to John's instructions, told
her nothing more. When the War was over and John came for her they would
explain everything. Meanwhile Sarah introduced her to the village women as her
own sister, come to live with her because the armies were fighting about her
husband's farm.

There
was something sure and free and vibrantly contented about Sarah Goodegroome
that gave Judith a sense of security and brought back her optimism. They became
close friends, and Judith was happier than she had been for a long while.

Whenever
he could, John sent her a message, always saying that he would join her as soon
as possible. Once he mentioned, briefly, that Rose Lawn still held. But her
home, her parents, the Earl of Radclyffe, seemed almost unreal to her now. Her
life was absorbed in the farmhouse, in her new friends and the little village
of Marygreen, in her thoughts and dreams of John—and most of all in the tiny
creature her body carried. Now that her worries and apprehensions were over,
now that she was thought to be—and almost thought herself—as respectable a married
woman as any of them, she grew happier and prettier by the day. Pregnancy
became her well. But she was eager for the day when she would bear John his
first son; never once did it occur to her that the child might be a girl.

She
was beginning to move restlessly, conscious of painful cramps in the muscles of
her arms and legs. She could see only dimly now, as if she had her eyes opened
under water. And though she could not tell how much time had gone by, Sarah was
still working, kneading her belly with capable strong fingers, her face
strained and wet.

I
must tell her to stop, thought Judith drowsily. She looks so tired.

She
heard the baby squalling and remembered again that it
was a girl.
I've never even thought of a name for her. What shall I call her? Judith—or
Anne—or perhaps it should be Sarah—

And
then she said softly, "Sarah—I think I'll name her Amber—for the colour of
her father's eyes—"

She
became aware of the other women nearby, of a bustle and stir in the room, and
now one of them leaned down to lay a warm cloth across her forehead, at the
same time removing another which had grown cool. Blankets had been piled on
her, but still her face was cold and wet and she could feel moisture on her
fingers. Her ears were ringing and the feeling of dizziness came again,
swooping down and whirling her up and away until she saw nothing but a hazy
blur, heard only a confused murmurous babble.

And
then as she moved slightly, trying to ease the cramps that knotted again and
again in her legs, Sarah suddenly put her face in her hands and began to sob.
Without an instant's hesitation another woman bent, began to work, firmly
kneading and massaging.

"Sarah—
Please, Sarah—" whispered Judith, full of pity for her.

Very
slowly and with great effort she drew her hand from where it lay at her side
under the blankets and raised it toward her. As she did so she saw that the
palm and fingers were smeared with wet blood. For a moment she stared at it
dreamily, without comprehension, and then all at once she understood why she
had had such a strange sense of comfort, as though she lay in a warm bath. Her
eyes widened with horror and she gave a sharp cry of pleading and protest.

"Sarah!"

Sarah
dropped to her knees, her face contorted with grief.

"Sarah!
Sarah, help me! I don't want to die!"

The
other women were sobbing wildly but Sarah, gaining control of herself again,
forced a smile. "It's nothing, Judith. You mustn't be frightened. A little
blood is nothing—" But the next moment her features twisted with
unbearable anguish and she was crying, unable to control herself any longer.

For
several seconds Judith stared at her bowed head and shaking shoulders, full of
wild, angry, helpless resentment, terrified. I
can't
be dying! she
thought. I can't! I don't want to die! I want to live!

And
then slowly she began to drift, floating back into some warm pleasant world
where there was no fear of death, where she and John would meet again. She
could see nothing at all now, and she let her eyes close—the ringing in her
ears had shut out every other sound. She was no longer struggling; she drifted
willingly, suffused with so intolerable a tiredness that she welcomed this
promise of relief. And then all at once she could hear again, loud and clear,
the sound of her daughter's cries. They were repeated over and over, but grew
steadily
fainter, fading away, until at last she heard them no more.

She
tried to speak to Sarah again, to beg for help—to demand it—Sarah! Sarah—don't
let me die— But she heard no words, she could not even tell if her lips formed
them.

1660

Marygreen
did not change in sixteen years. It had changed little enough in the past two
hundred.

The
church of St. Catherine stood at the northern end of the road, like a
benevolent godfather, and from it the houses ran down either side—half-timbered
cottages, with overhanging upper stories, and thatched with heather or with
straw that had been golden when new, then had turned slowly to a rich brown,
and now was emerald green with moss and lichen. Tiny dormer windows looked out,
wreathed with honeysuckle and ivy. Thick untrimmed hedges fenced the houses off
from the road and there were small wooden gates, some of them spanned by arches
of climbing roses. Above the hedges could be seen the confusion of blooming flowers,
delphinium and lilacs, both purple and white, hollyhocks that reached almost to
the eaves, an apple or plum or cherry tree in full blossom.

At
the far end from the church was the green, where on festive occasions the young
men played football and held wrestling matches and all the village danced.

There
was an inn built of soft red brick and showing the aged silver-grey oaken
timbers of its frame; a great sign painted with a crude golden lion swung out
over the street on an elaborate wrought-iron arm. Nearby was the blacksmith's
cottage with his adjoining shop and the homes and places of business of the
apothecary, the carpenter, and another tradesman or two. The rest of the
cottages were occupied by husbandmen who divided their time between working on
their own small holdings and on the large neighbouring farms. For there was no
manor or squire's estate near Marygreen, and the economic existence of the
village depended upon the well-to-do yeomen farmers.

The
day was quiet and warm, the sky blue with long streaks of white clouds, which
seemed to have been put there by a paintbrush drawn across wet water-colour;
the air was full of spring moisture and a rich loamy smell of damp earth.
Chickens and geese and tiny sparrows had taken possession of the road. A little
girl stood before one of the gates, holding a pet rabbit in her arms.

There
were few people in sight, for it was late afternoon and
each person had
his own work to do, so that the only idlers were dogs, a playful kitten or two,
and children too young to have learned a useful task. A woman with a basket on
her arm walked along the street, pausing for a few moments to talk to another
housewife, who threw open an upstairs casement window and leaned out,
surrounded as though in a frame with wandering clematis and morning glories.
Grouped about the village cross, which had somehow escaped Cromwell's soldiers,
were eight or ten young girls—cottagers' daughters who were sent every day to
watch their parents' cattle on the common and make sure that no single goat,
cow, or sheep should stray or be stolen.

Some
of the younger ones were playing "How many miles to Babylon?"—but the
three oldest girls talked among themselves, full of indignation and bad humour.
With hands on their hips they glared across the common to where two young men,
thumbs hooked awkwardly in their breeches, shifting their weight from one foot
to another, stood deep in conversation with someone who apparently upset their
not too well established poise. But their combined bulk hid whoever it was from
view.

"That
Amber St. Clare!" muttered the eldest girl with a furious toss of her long
blonde hair. "If ever there's a man about, you may be sure
she'll
come
along! I think she can smell 'em out!"

"She
should've been married and bedded a year ago—that's what my mother says."

The
third girl smiled slyly and said in a knowing sing-song: "Well, maybe she
ain't married yet, but she's already been—"

"Hush!"
interrupted the first, nodding toward the younger children.

"Just
the same," she insisted, though she had lowered her voice to a hiss,
"my brother says Bob Starling told him he had his way with her on
Mothering Sunday!"

But
Lisbeth, who had started the conversation, gave a contemptuous snap of her
fingers. "Uds Lud, Gartrude! Jack Clarke said the same thing six months
ago—and she's no bigger now than she was then."

Gartrude
had an answer. "And d'ye want to know why, Lisbeth Morton? B'cause she can
spit three times in a frog's mouth, that's why. Maggie Littlejohn seen her do
it!"

"Pooh!
My mother says
nobody
can spit three times in a frog's mouth."

But
the argument was cut short. For suddenly a sound of galloping hoofs echoed
through the quiet little valley and a body of men on horseback rounded the turn
of the road above St. Catherine's and came rushing headlong up the narrow
street toward them. One of the six-year-olds gave a scream of terror and ran to
hide behind Lisbeth's skirts.

"It's
Old Noll! Come back from the Devil to get us!" Even
dead, Oliver
Cromwell had not lost his salutary effect on disobedient youngsters.

The
men reined in their horses, bringing them to a prancing nervous halt not more
than ten yards from where the girls stood in a close group, their earlier
fright and apprehension giving way now to frank admiring interest. There were
perhaps fourteen men in all but more than half of them were either serving-men
or guides, for they wore plain clothes and kept at a discreet distance from the
others. The half-dozen in the lead were obviously gentlemen.

They
wore their hair in the shoulder-length cut of the Cavaliers, and their dress
was magnificent. Their suits were black velvet, dark red velvet, green satin,
with broad white linen collars and white linen shirts. On their heads were
wide-brimmed hats with swirling plumes, and long riding capes hung from their
shoulders. Their high leather boots were silver-spurred and each man wore a
sword at his hip. They had evidently been riding hard for some considerable
distance for their clothes were dusty and their faces streaked with dirt and
sweat, but in the girls' eyes they had an almost terrifying grandeur.

Now
one of the men took off his hat and spoke to Lisbeth, presumably because she
was the prettiest. "My services, madam," he said, his voice and eyes
lazily good-humoured, and as he looked her over slowly from head to foot,
Lisbeth blushed crimson and found it difficult to breathe. "We're looking
for a place to eat. Have you a good tavern in these parts?"

Lisbeth
stared at him, temporarily speechless, while he continued to smile down at her,
his hands resting easily on the saddle before him. His suit was black velvet
with a short doublet and wide knee-length breeches, finished with golden braid.
He had dark hair and green-grey eyes and a narrow black mustache lined his
upper lip. His good looks were spectacular —but they were not the most
important thing about him. For his face had an uncompromising ruthlessness and
strength which marked him, in spite of his obvious aristocracy, as an
adventurer and gambler, a man free from bonds and ties.

Lisbeth,
swallowed and made a little curtsy. "Ye mun like the Three Cups in
Heathstone, m'lord." She was afraid to recommend her own poor little
village to these splendid strangers.