Life and people interested me; and of course I was more interested in myself than anyone else; and when I discovered new traits in my own nature I was tremendously intrigued.

I know that Angelet returned to Far Flamstead quite bewildered, asking herself what I had done.

January came. I was becoming increasingly aware of the life growing within me; and this did much to assuage the pain I felt because I had lost the man I should love best for as long as I lived.

He returned in January. I imagined his riding home thinking of me, wondering how we would contrive to be together. He had shocked me a little when he had admitted knowing of my deception from the first. True, I had often felt he must, but he had made no sign of it when we met afterwards and that showed a certain secretiveness in his nature; but then a man must be secretive when he has secrets to hide. And when I had gone to him again he had shown so clearly that the cold man whom Angelet knew was by no means the true one. As thus with Luke—perhaps most of all with Luke, the stern Puritan—who had married me not so much to help me but to make love to me under the protecting cloak of holy matrimony. I thought in the years to come when passion is no longer so insistent he will tell himself that he married me to save me because of the ignominious position into which I had brought myself. I would remind him then of his eagerness to possess me. I would remember these things and make it so that he should not revel in the satisfaction self-righteousness brings to a Puritan.

Life was full of interest, and although I yearned for Richard and deeply mourned his loss, I could think longingly of the child who would be born in August.

Richard sought me out. He rode over to Longridge but did not call on us. I saw him from a window riding by, and I got into my riding-habit, saddled my horse and went out to meet him.

Our horses faced each other and I saw the look of shocked bewilderment in Richard’s face.

‘Bersaba!’ he cried. ‘Married to Luke Longridge! How could you do that? Oh my God, I understand. Angelet told me you are to have a child.’

‘It is true, Richard. I saw this as a way out and I took it.’

‘Because of our child?’

‘Yes, because of our child.’

‘There could have been a solution.’

‘Oh yes, you could have set me up in an establishment perhaps. You could have visited me now and then. It was not the life I had planned for myself.’

‘But what of us?’

‘What of us? There was no future for us. You are married to my sister. A madness overtook us … me if you like, for I take the blame. You followed when I beckoned. Oh, very willingly, you’ll remember. Nevertheless I was the one who led you on to the downward slippery path. Then there was Luke. He had asked me to marry him. He would provide the paternity for the child, so I married him.’

‘He will know …’

‘He already knows. I told him the reason I would marry him.’

‘Does he know that I am the father of the child?’

‘He knows. He must know. He is one of the chief performers in our little piece. He must know what the play is all about.’

‘And he is willing?’

‘He loves me. He is a good husband. I will not let him make a little Puritan of our child. But that is for later.’

‘Bersaba, you behave so …’

‘So immodestly, so different from the manner in which young ladies should? I am myself, Richard, and I make no excuses for it. Our problems will never be faced by trying to push them aside in order to forget them, for they won’t be pushed aside. They won’t be forgotten. I have sinned. I am to bear a child. Well, I have told Luke that I needed him for a husband and I have promised him that I will be a faithful wife to him and in time bear him children. I shall keep my promises. It would be easier if you and I met as little as possible.’ He bowed his head. ‘Which will be far from easy.’ ‘It is not easy,’ I said, ‘for you are my sister’s husband and we shall perforce meet sometimes. We must not allow ourselves to fall into temptation again. We have both been fortunate, and this child will always be there to remind me of what I once shared with you. Nothing can be the same for me again but it is over. Goodbye, Richard, my lover. When we meet again you will be only Richard; my sister’s husband.’

I turned my horse and I did not look at him. My poor beloved, with his unloved Angelet and his sad secret of his mock castle.

In the August of 1641 my child was born—a girl—and I called her Arabella. Luke and Ella wished her to be called Patience or Mercy, but I stood out against them and I had my way, as I did over most things in that household.

She was a perfect child and quickly became beautiful. I had refused to consider that my child might be malformed, although the idea had occurred to me. I know it did to Richard. That grim spectre must have been hanging over him ever since the monster child was born and he would wonder, I knew, whether some taint in him had made such a child.

As soon as my daughter was put into my arms and I examined her perfect little body, I was filled with delight; in a few weeks it became apparent that she was exceptionally bright. I knew very well that all parents think this of their children, but at least I could assure myself that, motherly prejudice aside, my Arabella was a normal child.

Ella adored her. Luke eyed her with some suspicion, but that was to be expected; as for myself, I was almost idolatrous, so that my little girl was assured of an abundance of love.

When Angelet beheld her she was in ecstasies. She started to discover similarities in the child’s features to our mother and to ourselves. My poor dear Angelet, she would, I guessed, have made a better mother than I would; and when I saw her with my child in her arms I felt remorse because this child should have been hers.

I was glad it was a girl. A boy might have shown a stronger resemblance to his father, and I did not want Luke to be reminded. He had done so much for me and I was growing more fond of him. We argued continuously and I had to admit to taking the opposite side of a subject merely to provoke him. He knew this and enjoyed it. Strangely enough, our marriage was a happy one which, considering our opposing natures, was in itself a miracle. But I knew of course that it owed its success to that physical union which he as a Puritan preferred to forget.

That was a momentous year for England. I felt remote from politics in my new domesticity. Even a woman such as myself must change when she bears a child. For the months before and after her birth Arabella was of more importance to me than anything.

One of the first acts of the new Parliament was to demand the impeachment of Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, who had been the King’s chief adviser when the conflict with Scotland had arisen and the victorious Scots had encroached on English soil so that part of the north was in their hands. Strafford had energetically suggested all kinds of unwelcome methods, such as loans from abroad, the debasement of the coinage and bringing in an Irish army to help fight Scotland and to threaten those in England who were showing signs of rebellion. The King and Strafford worked closely together and the Earl had been appointed Lieutenant General of the Army.

I often wished when I heard this that I could have sat in the library with Richard and discussed this matter. I knew that it would cause him grave concern.

So Strafford was impeached, his trial had taken place and he was found guilty and sentenced to death, for the fact that he had threatened to bring in the Irish to subdue if necessary rebellious Englishmen was construed as treason. The King was in a quandary. He wished to save his friend with whose policies he had been in agreement, and when the death warrant was placed before him for some time he prevaricated.

Luke used to pace up and down our bedroom talking of this.

‘Strafford must die,’ he declared. ‘And the day he does the King is in a very uneasy position.’

And finally the King had signed the death warrant and Strafford was executed.

That had been in May, three months before Arabella was born. I was enough aware of what was happening in the country to realize that this event was the most momentous so far and that the cloud which had been on the horizon was now overhead.

But then I was a woman whose child would come into the world in three months’ time; and that seemed of greater importance to me than anything else.

Events kept Richard away from home. Whether he stayed away more than he needed, I did not know. It seemed that he no longer suggested that Angelet should join him in Whitehall. She told me that the situation was too serious for any thought of entertaining there. He was constantly attending conferences with his fellow generals.

Once he came over and rode out to the farm. He must have hung around waiting for me. I saw him, and as on that other occasion I went out to see him. That was in May of ’42. Arabella was nine months old—as healthy a child as any parents could wish to see.

Richard looked at me yearningly, and all the old desire was immediately there between us as I leaned over the pales to talk to him.

‘I had to see you,’ he said. ‘We are on the brink of war. God knows what will become of us all.’

‘I know. And you and my husband will be on opposing sides.’

He waved that aside as though it were unimportant. ‘The child …’ he said.

‘She is the most beautiful child in the world.’

‘A perfect child?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Wait a while,’ and I went into the house and brought her out to him.

He looked at her in something like adoration while she regarded him with dignified solemnity.

‘A perfect child,’ he said, and I knew that he was thinking of that monster shut up in the castle. ‘It is like you,’ he went on, ‘to show me that I could have a perfect child.’

‘I never doubted that my child would be,’ I answered.

‘Oh, Bersaba, thank you for that brief happiness.’

‘Was it happiness?’ I asked.

‘For a few hours, yes,’ he answered.

‘At least it happened,’ I said. ‘But it is over now. She will always be here to remind me.’

I held her close to me and I thought: She is my consolation; she is my comfort. And I thought: Poor Richard, who lacks that comfort.

‘You are content in your marriage?’ he asked.

‘As content as I could be away from you.’

‘Bersaba … you say such words that delight me … and yet fill me with hopelessness.’

‘You have Angelet. She is a part of me. She is good and I am far from good. Try to remember that.’

‘I try to be kind to her. I would that she did not sometimes remind me of you. Every time I look at her …’

‘Goodbye, Richard.’

‘I do not know when we shall meet again. There is about to be a bloody war … the worst kind of war, Bersaba … I can happily fight the Spaniards or the French. It is a different matter when it must be my own countrymen. The country is split. The north and the west, Wales and Cornwall are for the King, and here in the south east and the manufacturing districts they are for the Parliament. We shall soon subdue the enemy, never fear, but there will be a violent struggle first.’

I left him then and carried my baby into the farmhouse.

I had lost him; I would never know that ecstasy which he alone could give me; and he was a sad and lonely man who was about to be drawn into a conflict distasteful to him. But I should never forget his face as he had looked at our child—our perfect little girl, our Arabella.

At least I had done something for him.

In August of that year Arabella was a year old the King set up his standard at Nottingham. By that time I was pregnant with Luke’s child.

Luke was in a state of great excitement. That which he had been preaching against for so long was about to be destroyed. He was certain of the success of the Parliamentary cause as Richard had been for that of the Royalists.

People were beginning to talk of Cavaliers and Roundheads. The Cavaliers were so called by those people who had attacked the officers of the Court who circled about Whitehall; it was meant to be an abusive epithet implying that these gentlemen were of loose morals and idle. The term Roundhead was said to have come into use during one of the increasingly numerous riots when a certain officer had drawn his sword against the mob. He had shouted that he would cut the throats of those round-headed dogs who bawled against the bishops.