After a brief silence I said: “I think I should like to get away.”

She nodded. “And you are very fond of Harriet and she of you … as fond as she is able to be of anyone apart from herself.”

I had to defend her. “She has always been good to me. Gregory and Benjie adore her.”

“She has special gifts. So you really feel you would like to go?”

“Yes, I would. I should love to see Venice. I believe it’s very beautiful.”

“It is said to be.”

“Mother … what about Christabel?”

She frowned slightly. “If you were going to be away you would still have to continue with your lessons.”

“I should like to go alone,” I said.

“I will see what your father says,” she answered.

I felt my lips curl bitterly. “Oh, he will not care what I do. I dare swear he’ll be glad to be rid of me.”

“You don’t understand him, Priscilla.”

“I do. I understand perfectly.”

She could see I was becoming emotional so she just shook her head, kissed me and left me.

My father agreed that I should go to Venice with Harriet. There was one stipulation. Christabel should come with me. I remarked bitterly that he seemed more concerned for Christabel’s welfare than he was for mine.

“Nonsense,” retorted my mother. “He wants her to go for your benefit.”

I did not argue the matter. I thought how fortunate I was to have Harriet, and sometimes I would break into a cold sweat wondering what I should have done if she had not been at hand to suggest her preposterous plan. But because she was Harriet it did not seem impossible to carry it out, as it would have done if anyone else had thought of it.

It was now the end of February and Harriet wrote constantly of what she called “plans.” I was sure she enjoyed writing these letters which she couched in innuendo—references which I could understand and no one else could. Intrigue was the breath of life to her.

We were going to leave at the end of March.

“A very appropriate time,” she wrote, meaning that the existence of my baby, conceived in mid-January, could without a great deal of subterfuge be kept secret until that time. “It will be springtime, the time of growth when the flowers and the trees begin to blossom. We shall be there through the summer, which I believe is delightful, and the sunshine more reliable than it is here.”

“I believe,” said my mother, “that you really are getting excited about this trip.”

“Venice is said to be so beautiful and I long to see it.”

She was pleased. I knew she was thinking that I was getting over what she thought of as “that unfortunate episode.” Christabel, too, was excited. They seemed to have forgotten—though I did not—that she had an unfortunate episode of her own to get over.

I was concerned about her, though. Sooner or later she would have to be in on the secret. I had told her nothing yet. I wanted to wait until I had consulted Harriet.

There was news from Court. Titus Oates was losing his importance. People were growing less afraid of criticizing him. He had made a big mistake in talking so disparagingly about the Duke of York and in such a way that it appeared he was preparing to make him his next victim.

“He is a fool,” said my father, “if he thinks the King would see the end of his own brother. Oates should have realized what dangerous grounds he was on when he tried to attack the Queen. The King showed it clearly. It seems to me the man is riding for a fall.”

I hoped so with all my heart, and then I felt bitterly angry because it was too late to save Jocelyn and my happiness.

There was comfort, though, in thinking that this wicked man who had caused such misery might now be seeing the end of that power which had been bestowed on him in such a ridiculous manner. It seemed incredible that Parliament could have made the Duke of Monmouth responsible for his safety, the Lord Chamberlain for his lodging and the Lord Treasurer for his food and such necessities. I had heard that he had three servants in constant attendance and two or three gentlemen—after the manner of royalty—to wait on him and wrangle over the honour of holding the basin for him to wash.

But as such men will do, he had gone a little too far. Voices were being raised against him. My father brought home a pamphlet which had been written by Sir Robert L’Estrange that demanded to know how much longer the country was going to allow Titus Oates to drink the tears of widows and orphans.

“He has made many enemies, that man,” said my father. “They are waiting to rise against him.”

I fervently hoped they would rise, and this man who had brought misery to so many would be called upon to answer for his sins.

But that would not bring Jocelyn back.

At the middle of March we were ready to leave for Harriet’s. It had been decided that I should stay with her for two weeks before leaving for Italy.

I said good-bye to my mother who was very sad at my leaving. I think she realized how eager I was to be gone and she construed that as meaning that I was happier with Harriet than with her. I almost felt like telling her the real reason why I had to go away but stopped myself in time.

The countryside was beautiful on the day we set out. It was a sparkling morning, though still cold. Spring was in the air and a certain exultation in my heart. I was very much aware of the growing life within me, and although the way ahead was fraught with difficulties, I could not regret what had happened.

Only my child could compensate me for what I had lost, and I longed for its birth.

I looked at Christabel beside me. She was happier than she had been since she had realized that Edwin was not going to defy his parents and offer her marriage. She, too, was getting over her sorrow.

Harriet received us with that exuberant welcome she bestowed on all her guests, but which was heartening all the same. She took my hands and pressed them with special significance. We were conspirators.

Soon we were in our rooms—the same as we had occupied on the previous visit—and Harriet was with me within five minutes.

She put her hands on her hips, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Let me look at you. No sign. No sign at all.” She put her head on one side. “Except, perhaps, a serenity of countenance which comes, so they tell me, to all expectant mothers. My dear child. I have such plans. All is prepared. Gregory will play his part as well as he can. He is not the world’s greatest actor … but never mind I shall be there if he fluffs his lines. Your part will be the most difficult … with the exception of mine … but of course I have played different parts before. I shall sustain the role with never a false step, you will see.”

“But it will only be necessary until we get to Venice.”

“I don’t plan it that way. This has to be the complete deception. A good name for a play, don’t you think? But this is a play … a masquerade. We can never be sure what might happen if things were known to be as they are. Life is full of coincidences. You cross the Grand Canal on the Rialto Bridge and you run straight into someone you knew at home. ‘My dear Priscilla, how are you? How well you look. I do declare you have put on considerable weight!’”

I couldn’t help laughing. She had assumed the part of an inquisitive and malicious gossip.

“People at home will be so interested to hear that we have met and how you are looking!’” she went on. “You see what I mean? No. We are going to play this as it should be played, and that means playing it safely.”

“Do you really think we can disguise my condition from everyone right to the end?”

She nodded. “I have designed some delightful gowns. They are going to be the latest fashion in Venice … because I shall wear them and that will be enough. It will be believed that they are designed to hide my pregnancy, which I shall discuss endlessly. Do you get the idea?”

“Harriet, you are wonderful.”

“My dear child, you have seen nothing yet. This is going to be one of my most successful roles. The only sad thing is that no one will realize how successfully I am playing it. One of the ironies of life, my dear child.”

“I don’t know what I should do without you. I was thinking that as we came along. What should I have done, Harriet?”

“There is always something. But I am glad I am here to help you.”

“You are so good.”

“Let us keep our eyes on the facts. There is little good in me. I am fond of you. I always have been. I owe your mother something for looking after Leigh. I owe your father something for his contemptuous attitude towards me and his refusal to be friends. So it gives me great pleasure to be closer to his daughter than he can ever be. My motives are mixed—some unworthy, as most motives are, but I think the chief is my love for you. I never had a daughter. I should have had a daughter. A daughter would have been to me what a son is to a man, what Carl is to your father. You see, I should have wanted her to be like me … made in my own image as they say. It’s the vanity of women … which almost rivals that of men. But what a lot of nonsense we are talking! We must get down to practicalities. Now, there is Christabel.”

“My father insisted that she come with me. I have to go on with lessons.”

She nodded. “He has a special interest in Christabel.” She smiled wryly. “Well, we have her here. Either she goes or she is told. Has she guessed anything?”

“She has given no indication that she has.”

Harriet was silent for a moment. Then she said: “That’s a deep one. I am unsure of her.”

“I think I understand. She had a miserable childhood. Then she hoped Edwin would marry her. It has made her a little bitter.”

“I get impatient with people who are bitter about life. If they don’t like the position they are in they should get out of it.”

“All have not your ingenuity, Harriet, to say nothing of your beauty and charm.”

“You know how to please. You are right, of course, and we should not be too hard on Christabel who lacks my ingenuity, beauty and charm.”

“It means she has to know.”

She shrugged her shoulders. Then she added: “We will wait, though, until we are in Venice and delay the telling until the last moment.”

It was a long journey but we were too excited at the prospect of seeing new countries to think very much about the exhaustion. We had crossed the Channel and made our way across France to Basle. Harriet had many friends in France, for she had lived in that country before she joined my mother at the Chateau Congreve before the Restoration. It was true that most of her friends had been players. Some had married into rich families and we often stayed at chateaux. Sometimes we sojourned as long as two days. Gregory accompanied us and was very kind and considerate, which was pleasant, as naturally sometimes the journey could be irksome. We had two menservants with us, too, so we had good protection should we need it.

Harriet had written to my mother after we had left England, telling her that she believed she was going to have a child. She had shown me the letter.

As you can imagine, my dear Arabella, I am uncertain about this. The mother in me rejoices. The worldly woman I am is not exactly singing the Magnificat. Gregory, dear, foolish man, is beside himself with joy. Had I been wise I should probably have cancelled my trip, but as you know full well, my dear, I am not always wise.

“There,” she said, sealing the letter. “The first step in our campaign.”

It was at a chateau close to Basle that I took Christabel into my confidence. The decision was forced on me, for I had delayed it as long as I could. I was standing by my dressing table when suddenly I fainted.

It was all over in a few minutes. She helped me to my bed and watched me anxiously, and when I opened my eyes I saw that she guessed.

“You know then?” I said.

“I have wondered for the last week or so.”

“You wondered!”

“Well, there was that night you stayed on the island.” She lifted her shoulders. “These things happen. There were one or two signs … But, Priscilla, you should never have come here.”

“It is precisely because I am in this condition that I am here.”

“You mean Harriet …”

“Harriet planned it.”

“So she knows!”

“She was the first to know. I went to her because I did not know what else to do.”

“I would have helped.”

“How?”