‘And you think that was wrong, do you, Phoebe?’

‘Mistress, ’tis not for me …’

I laughed at her. ‘You concern yourself unduly, Phoebe. The gentleman in question is General Tolworthy, my sister’s husband and therefore my brother-in-law.’

Phoebe looked at me with wide eyes for a few seconds, then she lowered them quickly, but not before I had seen the apprehension there.

I was sure that Phoebe knew that I had had adventures. As a girl who had had her own, she would have noticed that strange elation in me; moreover, she would know what it meant. She may have felt it herself when she lingered in the cornfields with the man who had fathered the child who had been her disgrace and her salvation.

I could not sleep that night. I kept going over our conversation in my mind. His face haunted me: the outline of his features, the fine but well-marked brows, the cold glitter of the blue eyes, the correct manner, the absence of any awareness that I was a woman; and yet … there was something … some little spark of understanding, some rapport that flashed between us.

I reversed our positions. Suppose I had been the one who had come to Carlotta, suppose Angelet had been the one who had caught smallpox. I would have been his wife. Or should I? Why had he chosen her? She told me about her adventure in the streets of London. I could imagine that when he rescued and protected her, her helplessness would have appealed to him. I suppose had my purse been snatched I should have attempted to retrieve it. Suppose then that I had been Angelet and his wife. Angelet would be lying in this bed now coming to stay with me.

I had to know what it was like between them. Was he in love with her and she with him?

I should soon discover when I lived in that house with them. And what would be the result of my living there?

I tried to talk to myself secretly: You know your nature. You need to be married. Phoebe knows it. Perhaps she does also. Should I try to find a husband for her … someone who will adore me for giving him the opportunity of marrying Phoebe and coming into my service? Why did I always want people to admire me? Why couldn’t I be simple and uncomplicated like Angelet? But perhaps she was no longer so simple. She had married; she had slept in this man’s bed; she would have born his child if something had not gone wrong. She must have changed.

Did I not know myself? I had been ill for so long and I was suddenly awakened to life. I had flirted with Bastian again, and although my pride would not let me take him as a lover, I had wanted to. But then it was not necessarily Bastian I had wanted. Now I met this man and he was different from anyone I had known. He was not like the Kroll boys and the Lamptons with whom I had grown up. There was a remoteness about him which intrigued me; he was worldly; he had lived; he had fought battles and faced death. He fascinated me, therefore. And he was my sister’s husband, and because of this strange relationship between us which I do not altogether understand I must have this feeling for him.

At last I slept and I was awakened by Phoebe in the early morning because we were to leave the inn precisely at seven of the clock.

We breakfasted together, and talked easily as we had before.

He told me of his home in the north, and I told him I could imagine his ancestors defending their homes against the Picts. He had a look of the Dane about him, and I said that his ancestors must have come in their long ships and ravaged our coasts.

He said that may have been but they claimed to have come with William the Conqueror, and we talked about war and how it had always existed in the world. I said how much better it might be if these matters could be settled in other ways.

As a soldier he could not see how else they could be settled because there would always be people who would not keep their word and the only real way of enforcing law and order was by force.

‘It’s strange,’ I said, ‘that to produce peace one must go to war.’

‘Antidotes are often like that,’ he told me. ‘I have learned something of the use of herbs, and you find that the effects of one poison are often nullified by the action of another.’

Then he talked about herbs and how he had often used them after battles, and so the breakfast hour passed quickly.

We were to leave at seven and we did—on the stroke. I was amused at his precision. I guessed that unpunctuality was something which would seem almost a crime to him, and I wondered how Angelet fared because punctuality had never been one of her virtues.

I rode beside him, and I thanked him for the courtesy of coming to the Bald-Faced Stag to escort me to his home. He waved that aside and said that of course he would come to meet his new sister and it had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience. His face was very earnest as he said: ‘I hope you will not find it too quiet at Far Flamstead. Later we shall go to my residence in Whitehall and there of course you will meet people from the Court. At this time I feel that Angelet needs to regain her strength and I wish her to live quietly.’

‘Of course. I live in the country, which I imagine is far quieter than Far Flamstead, so you need have no fears on that score.’

‘I am sure your coming is going to be of great benefit to us both.’

He pointed out the features of the landscape as we passed along, and I was struck by the difference in the country from that to which I was accustomed. Our trees bore the marks of their battles with the south-west gales; here in the south east of England, the trees—lime, plane, horsechestnut—seemed stately; there was a neatness about them, as though their branches had been trimmed, and although the grass might seem of less verdant green than ours—but only slightly so—fields often gave the impression that the grass had just been cut. There was almost an elegance about it which our rougher Cornish landscape lacked.

And finally we came to Far Flamstead, I noticed his pride when he pointed it out … a gracious house, clearly built during the early years of the great Queen—red brick, half timbered with latticed windows, surrounded by pleasant gardens.

I caught a glimpse of a grey tower and I cried: ‘That must be the castle of which Angelet told me.’

Because I was so much aware of him and had become most susceptible to his changing moods, I knew he was sorry I had mentioned the castle. There was something about it which disturbed him.

‘It’s a ruin, isn’t it?’

‘Hardly that. A folly is a better description.’

‘Which means something that is useless.’

‘Oh … er … yes, of course.’

‘Doesn’t it take up space which could be used for other purposes?’

‘My ancestor built it and there is a legend about it. It is not to be disturbed.’

‘Because if it were it would bring ill luck to the family or something like that?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Are you superstitious?’

‘We all are at times. Those who declare they are not are often proved to be more so than the rest of us. It is a natural instinct for mankind to be superstitious. Imagine him when understanding first began to dawn on him. He was afraid … afraid of the moon, afraid of the sun, afraid of the wild beasts which roamed the land, and out of fear superstition grew. It’s a natural instinct.’

‘So you believe that while we have something to fear we shall be superstitious about it. I know. There is a legend that while the castle remains all will go well with the house.’

He was silent; and I longed to know the real truth about the castle.

But now we were riding into the courtyard and there was my sister.

‘Bersaba,’ she called. I dismounted and she flung herself into my arms.

We talked. How we talked! There was so much to say. She must know what had happened at home since she had left, but she was not more anxious than I to hear what had happened to her.

Life at home had gone on much as usual, I told her. I had been sick and spent a great deal of my time in my bedchamber, as she knew. Our father had come home and with him Fennimore and Bastian, and neither of the younger men would go to sea again.

She told me of her arrival at Carlotta’s house, of her adventure in the streets when she had been rescued by Richard; she spoke of his courtship and their marriage and how she had come to Far Flamstead to be mistress of it.

But although she talked incessantly and described in detail, she told me nothing of her relationship with her husband. In fact I noticed a certain reluctance in her to do so.

She took me into a charming bedchamber which she called the Lavender Room and which was to be mine. The curtains about the bed were embroidered with sprigs of lavender, as were the curtains, and the rugs were of a delicate shade of mauve.

Next to it was the Blue Room, which she used as a bedroom often.

‘Not always?’

‘No.’ She was faintly embarrassed. ‘I have slept in it … since … Not always, of course. But after my miscarriage I had to rest a good deal, and it was decided that I ought to have a bedroom of my own.’

‘Apart,’ I said, ‘from the connubial chamber.’

‘Well … yes. It’s a very restful room.’

There was that about my sister which was still virginal, and it was hard to believe that she had been married and but for an accident might have been about to become a mother.

The Blue Room was charming—very much like the Lavender Room. I wondered whether it had been Richard Tolworthy’s idea that she should have this retreat.

She talked about the events which led up to her miscarriage and how she had heard it said that the castle was haunted, and one night seeing a light there she had gone up to the Castle Room to look. She had seen … something … she was not quite sure what. A face, she had thought, and oddly enough she believed she had seen the face before. The servants were convinced that she had had a nightmare, but she didn’t really think that was so. In any case she had had a fright and they said that had brought on her miscarriage.

I remembered the strange look in Richard Tolworthy’s face when he had talked of the castle, and I longed to know more about it, because I felt that in learning that I would know more about him.

Those first days were full of vivid impressions. I rode out with my sister and she showed me the Longridge Farmhouse.

Richard had ridden over, she told me, to thank them for what they had done for her, although relations were strained between them. She told me how Richard had once challenged Luke Longridge to a duel.

‘A duel,’ I cried, because this seemed to shed a new light on his character. I could not imagine his being romantically rash. ‘What? Was it over a woman?’

Angelet laughed. ‘Certainly not. Luke Longridge was disloyal to the King.’

‘I see your husband is an ardent Royalist,’ I commented.

She was thoughtful. ‘He is a soldier and his duty is to be loyal to the King.’

Yes, I thought. He was a man who would always act conventionally. He might not admire the King but he served him and therefore would defend him to the death if need be.

He was the sort of man who would adhere strictly to the conventions.

So I rode and walked and talked with Angelet. Sometimes when the evenings were drawing in I would see a certain apprehension in her eyes. Sometimes I would go quietly to the door of her room and peep inside. If she were not there I would know that she was in what I called the connubial bed with him.

Once he spent a night away and I was struck with her relief. Yet when she talked of him her eyes glowed with such admiration that anyone would have said that she was deeply in love with him.

I tried to sound her about that side of her relationship with him.

‘Soon,’ I said, ‘we shall be hearing you are with child again.’

I saw the shiver pass through her.

‘What’s the matter, Angelet? You want children, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And he … your husband?’

‘Yes, naturally he wants children.’

‘Well then, since you both do …’

She turned away from me, but I caught her arm. ‘Are you happy, Angel?’

‘Of course.’

‘Marriage is everything you want … everything …’

I made her look at me, for she had never been able to lie to me. Now I could see that blankness in her eyes which showed me she was trying to hide something.

‘There are things about marriage,’ she said, ‘of which you would be ignorant.’