I wish your father were here, but you know we can never be sure when he will return, and Fennimore is not even here either. I know that you do not want to wait. I have experienced this myself when I was your age, so I am writing to General Tolworthy and to Sir Gervaise and telling them that they have your family’s consent to your marriage.

Oh my dearest, how different it is from what I imagined! I had planned that you should be married in this house and naturally I thought it would be someone hereabouts and that you would live near to me and Trystan Priory. But this is clearly what you want and I know how unhappy you would be if I withheld my consent.

So, my dear, be happy. You may become betrothed. Perhaps you could come down here to be married. I wonder if that is possible?

Bersaba is writing to you. It will be but a short note. There is a great change in your sister, but she is gradually though slowly regaining her strength.

I hope to hear from you soon, my darling.

My dearest love as ever,

Mother.’

I kissed the letter. How like her. So calm, so reasonable. It was not what she had planned. Of course it wasn’t. Who would have believed Bersaba would have fallen ill and I should come to London and find my husband there. But she accepted it. It was life, and she remembered the time when she and my father were young and how dearly she had loved him!

And from Bersaba:

‘Dear Angelet,

So you are to be married. Fancy! I always thought we’d be married together. I hope you will be happy.

You will see a great change in me when we meet. I have been so ill, as you know, but you can’t know what a change there is in me. I have to rest a great deal, and there are you going to balls and meeting interesting people, and now you are going to be married. I want to see you, Angelet, so much. There is such a lot I want to say. I can’t write more now because I am so tired and they are waiting to take the letters.

Do come home and bring your future husband. I long to see you both.

Your loving twin, Bersaba.’

It was the first letter she had written to me in her life because we had always been together and she had been too weak to write before.

Try as I might I could not imagine her languid in her bed, she who had always been so vital in her somewhat secret way.

But I confess I was too excited to think very much about my home. My future was here.

Richard rode over and was closeted with Sir Gervaise, and after a while he came to the parlour, where I was waiting for him.

‘This is good news,’ he said. ‘We have your mother’s consent and she assures us that she speaks for your father. There is nothing now to prevent our betrothal.’

He took my left hand and put a ring on the third finger. It was a strange ring—a twist of gold very elaborately engraved, with a square-cut emerald set in it.

It seemed to fit me perfectly.

‘A good omen,’ he said. ‘It’s the family ring, always worn by the brides of the eldest son.’

I admired it. It was certainly unusual.

Then he kissed me very solemnly.

He supped with us, and he and Sir Gervaise talked at length about the insurrection in Scotland and the covenant the Scots had entered into which was against the government.

‘There could be trouble there,’ said Richard, ‘and we have to be ready to meet it.’

‘There is a great deal of unease everywhere,’ admitted Sir Gervaise. ‘What do you think will be the outcome?’

‘I can’t say, of course, but if this trouble goes on I should be prepared for … just anything.’

Sir Gervaise nodded gravely.

Carlotta clearly found this conversation boring and changed it to matters more agreeable to herself, which was the affairs of people she knew and what entertainments were planned in the future, which Richard—I was gleefully aware—found as trivial as she found his interests dull. I wondered how she could ever have thought that he was interested in her. I wanted him to know that I would be happy to learn the serious side of the country’s affairs and would listen enraptured while he talked to me of the hazards of government.

After Richard had left I retired to my room and I had not been there very long when there was a knock on my door and Carlotta entered.

She threw herself on to my bed and looked at me quizzically.

‘What a bore!’ she cried. ‘I fancy you are not going to have a very lively life with the brave General.’

‘It is the life I have chosen.’

‘My dear girl, you can hardly call it a choice. There was no one else to choose from, was there?’

‘I didn’t need anyone else.’

‘Your first proposal and you accepted. I can’t tell you how many I had before I took Gervaise.’

‘I knew of my cousin Bastian, of course.’

‘Oh, that was never serious.’

‘It was to him.’

‘A country boy! He just did not understand. That could hardly be called my fault.’

‘I should call it that.’

‘Oh dear, you are giving yourself airs. It doesn’t become you, Angelet. You got your General by that little girl manner … someone whom he can mould. I can see his thinking that he’ll train you like a recruit in his army to go weak at the knees every time the General appears. Don’t you think you should consider a little and not rush into this?’

‘I have considered.’

‘Now that my mother has left I feel responsible for you.’

‘You surprise me.’

‘You are after all a guest in my house.’

‘I feel that Sir Gervaise is my host.’

‘You have a hostess too, my dear, and you only knew Gervaise when he came briefly to Cornwall, but you and I are a kind of cousin, aren’t we? Not blood relations but … my mother and your mother brought up as sisters. So I feel I can talk to you as poor Gervaise couldn’t.’

‘I feel complete confidence in poor Gervaise.’

‘And you say poor in that way, implying that he is so because he is married to me. Let me tell you, my dear Angelet, Gervaise is very content with his marriage. There is more to the condition, you should know, than being polite in company. In some respects—and I fancy you know little about this—I am very satisfactory indeed.’

I had a notion of what she was referring to. There was another side to marriage and it was true I had never experienced it, though I knew of its existence. I had seen lovers at home, secret meetings in secret places. Fumbling embraces … and such like.

I had to admit she had made me apprehensive, for she was right that I had no conception of what that would mean and she was implying that Sir Gervaise and she were in tune in this rather special way.

She was fully aware that she had aroused my uneasiness and this gave her some pleasure.

‘Let me see the ring,’ she said.

I held out my hand and she slipped it from my finger.

‘It has an engraved T inside, I see.’

‘It has been worn by the brides of the eldest son through the ages.’

‘Do you care to wear a ring that has been worn by so many before you?’

‘It’s a tradition,’ I said.

She stared down at the ring in the palm of her hand.

‘So it was worn by your predecessor,’ she said slowly. ‘It must have been taken from her finger when she was dead.’

She handed me back the ring with a smile.

‘Good night,’ she said. And she added: ‘And good luck.’ The implication was that I might need it.

After she had gone I sat in my chair, staring at the ring in the palm of my hand. I was picturing a woman in her coffin and Richard leaning over her to take off the ring.

It was an unpleasant image and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. So much so that it haunted my dreams in a vague intangible way and I woke up in the darkness trembling. I think I had thought that I was lying in my coffin and Richard was saying, ‘All right. We mustn’t forget the ring. I shall need that for the next one.’

I found it difficult to sleep after that.

The betrothal had taken place at the beginning of April and then the preparations began, for the wedding was to be in May.

‘A month or so before your eighteenth birthday,’ said Richard.

I couldn’t help remembering my last birthday when we had been out in the fields near Trystan Priory. I mustn’t forget it was Bersaba’s birthday too. It was then that our mother had said, ‘Next birthday will be different. There will be parties and such like.’ And she had given us our journals to write and I had started immediately. Bersaba had said she would only write in hers when she had something important to write about. Poor dear Bersaba! She would have something to write about now. What a lot had happened in a short year! There could not be a better example of the truism that life was made up of light and shadow. The tragedy of Bersaba’s sickness; the joy of my marriage. I embroidered a bag for her which I would send for her birthday. It was exquisite and I had put a good deal of work in it. She would love it for that reason because she would know that with my approaching wedding I should have so much to do and yet I still set time aside for her.

The sudden April showers and brief sunshine were giving way to more settled weather, May was a beautiful month that year—more so than usual, I was sure. The scent of the hawthorn hung heavy in the air and I thought it intoxicating, but perhaps it was my happiness after all. Ana was working hard for me. Carlotta had graciously allowed her to do so. Poor Mab was not very good. She was in a twitter of excitement about the coming marriage and thought herself to be so lucky to have been chosen to come to London with me, where so many exciting things could happen.

We went frequently into the city to buy what was needed. I began to enjoy these jaunts and forgot the unpleasantness I had experienced there. I was never foolish enough to leave whoever I was with and I did avert my eyes when I saw a pillory, but I never saw that grim spectacle again.

There seemed always to be something going on. I saw people dance round the maypole on May Day and crown the May Queen; I saw lovers embracing in the fields on sunny afternoons; I heard their laughter as they shouted to each other—apprentices and serving girls. I saw them on the river and arm-in-arm in the streets. I watched the travelling pedlars—and they often came to Pondersby Hall and spread their packs for us to see—calling their wares as they went through the streets. I listened to the chat between them and their customers. I would watch the corn-cutter, who in addition to dealing with painful feet could pull out a troublesome tooth, and this usually attracted a crowd to watch the anguish of the poor victim. There were jugglers and fiddlers and often there would be cock-fighting in a corner of the street, a practice which filled me with disgust, but I never had to see the actual contest because so many crowded round to witness the so-called sport that I could not have looked in had I wanted to.

Then of course there were the shops—the object of our visits—and so much beautiful cloth to examine, so many ribbons to choose. Ana and I would spend hours in this fascinating occupation. She said it was all part of the preparations for marriage. Perhaps there should have been other preparations. If my mother had been with me or Bersaba, I could have talked to them. Perhaps I could have learned … But I should learn gradually, and Richard would be kind, respecting my ignorance.

But how I longed to talk to Bersaba.

The time was passing. It would soon be my wedding day.

I saw little of Richard. He was with his company, he told us. The Scottish unrest was occupying much of his time. There could be trouble with these Covenanters.

It seemed plausible enough when he explained to me. ‘You see, the Covenant has always been important to Scotland. It was started nearly a hundred years ago when the Scots feared a revival of Popery. This year the King wished to introduce the English liturgy into Scotland and they have revived the Covenant.’

‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘that there has to be perpetual trouble over religion.’

‘It has always been so,’ he answered. ‘And this means, of course, that we have to be watchful of events on the Border. If there should be trouble I shall have to be ready.’

I understood that, though I was sorry that it meant he could not enjoy these exciting preparations with me.

Carlotta came to my room one evening. I wondered why she always chose the evenings, just before I was about to retire, for this sort of thing. I fancied her object was to disturb me because she resented my happiness, and I was becoming more and more convinced that she had taken up with Bastian because she had known that Bersaba and he were friendly. Of course that was just a childish friendship, but none the less important to them because of it.