Authors: Philippa Carr
I looked for Aimée, and he said: ‘I implied that you and I should best get to know each other alone at first. Were you surprised to find you had a half-sister?’
‘Yes, indeed I was.’
‘My brother was always a lusty man. All the Hessenfields are… except those who are incapacitated.’ He spoke without bitterness. He had a very sweet expression and I began to warm towards him.
‘John—your father, that is—was always an adventurer. He was the eldest of a family of brothers. We were all daring. As I said, it runs in the family. But he was always the leader. John led, we followed. Sometimes we shared his adventures. He was a wonderful man in so many ways. It has always been as though he lives on. And so he does in a way, in you two girls. Strange that he should have left
girls.
One would have imagined he would have had sons.’
‘Would you have preferred them?’
‘Not now I have seen you both.’
‘How did you know where I was?’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘Oh… I was told. A friend of a friend… one of those coincidences.’
For the first time he seemed to lose that open look, and I felt my question had embarrassed him. I decided not to probe just then but to try to discover who the friend was later.
‘My brother sent messages from France. You know he was one of the leading Jacobites?’
I nodded. ‘If he were alive today…’
‘You are going to say that he would bring the Chevalier of St George to England.’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘And you share his views?’
He was evasive. ‘These could be dangerous times,’ was all he said. After a slight pause he went on: ‘Let me tell you what your father wrote to me about you. He said you were the most adorable child he had ever seen and he was proud of you. He loved you dearly, you know.’
‘Yes, I did know it. It is something one knows even at an early age. I still remember it.’
‘He loved your mother too. He regretted there could be no marriage. She was already married. He told me all about it. It was one of those adventures that came his way.’
‘And what about Aimée?’
‘That must have been some time before. I don’t know much about Aimée’s mother, but he must have been fond of her to give her the watch and the ring… particularly the ring. I think he must have known your mother was dying. You see, this ring is a rather special one in our family. It has always been worn by the head of the house. It has special properties.’
‘Does it bring good luck?’
‘It is not that. Here, take a look at it.’ He took the ring from his finger. I remembered it vaguely. I did not find it attractive. It was heavy gold with a stone of a nondescript colour. The setting was elaborate. ‘It meant a good deal to me to get this back,’ went on my uncle. ‘It is important to the family. When he knew that he was dying of the same fatal illness which took your mother too, he sent for Aimée’s mother and gave her the ring and his watch to bring to me with the letter. I thought we had lost the ring for ever and that because of his illness it would have been buried with him. Then when Aimée arrived with it she had brought back the Hessenfield heirloom. It convinced me that she was his daughter. I knew he would never have parted with the ring unless he was dying and could not give it to your mother. Of course, owing to the war, a long time elapsed before she was able to get here.’
‘When did you hear of his death?’
‘A few months after it happened. Our friends could not get across immediately to tell me. We heard that your mother had died too. I wondered what had become of you. I asked for news but could get none. No one knew your whereabouts.’
‘Jeanne, one of the maids at the
hôtel,
looked after me. She kept me until my Aunt Damaris—my mother’s half-sister—came to look for me.’
‘Yes, I know that now. But I did not then. As soon as I discovered where you were I sent my nephew to invite you to come here. I wished you had come earlier.’
‘I should have done so if my aunt had not been expecting a baby.’
‘The good Aunt Damaris. Tell me more about her. Aimée says that her mother tried to find you and failed to do so. She said that after the death of your father and mother there was chaos in the house. Of course, Aimée can only speak from hearsay. She only knows what her mother told her. It was all very mysterious to her before she had the opportunity of coming to England. It was what her mother had waited for. She wanted Aimée to present herself to her father’s family—and to bring back the ring and the watch. I suspect that she hoped Aimée would find a home over here. Aimée tells me that she had recently married and set up home with her new husband just outside Paris. I can imagine that a grown-up daughter would be rather
de trop
in such a household. I was touched to see how delighted Aimée was by her welcome here and when I suggested she stay as long as she liked… in fact, make her home here… she was overcome with joy.’
‘It is all so bewildering. I had no idea what was going on.’
‘How could you? What were you… five or six?’
‘I just knew that I was with my parents in that luxurious house and then they were gone and I was in a damp, dark cellar, frightened, bewildered, wondering what it all meant.’
‘My poor, poor child! But you were brave, I don’t doubt. You have a look of your father. What a waste of a life! I should have been the one. Here I am, condemned to a chair for the rest of my life… That’s self-pity. One should beware of that. It’s taking your troubles out and nourishing them… pampering them… instead of shutting them away in a dark cupboard and forgetting them—which is the wise thing to do.’
I said: ‘I’m sorry. Has it been long…?’
‘Fourteen years ago, when I was twenty-five. I was thrown from my horse when I was out hunting. I knew she couldn’t take that hedge. It was too high. Others turned away and took a detour. But I
had
to do it. It was showing off… nothing more. I crashed. My mare was on top of me. She had to be shot. I sometimes think it was a pity they didn’t shoot me. There’s self-pity again.’
‘It’s understandable,’ I replied.
‘They never thought I should recover. I was engaged to be married to a beautiful girl. She looked after me in those first weeks. She said we would go through with the marriage… but old self-pity came along. I was impossible, I knew. I had a grievance against life. We had always been so active in our family. I couldn’t endure it; and then there was the pain… the intermittent pain. The trouble was that I never knew when it was coming on. I had rages. In the end she saw how useless it would be. So did I. I couldn’t condemn her to a life like that. She married someone else in time.’
‘I am so sorry. Now you seem so calm and gentle… so reconciled.’
‘That is what time does, Clarissa. Time is the great teacher, the great healer. I tell myself that it was tragic that John should die of a strange disease in Paris and that I, his successor, should be a cripple spending his days in a chair. You might say it was the curse of the Fields, if you believe in such things.’
‘Is there supposed to be a curse?’
‘No. We’ve been strong and vigorous through the ages, defending our lands and goods from marauding Scots when they made their forays over the border. It was just one of the misfortunes which beset most families at some time. I have been talking a great deal about myself. I want to hear about you.’
I told him about life at Enderby and how we were close to the Dower House, the home of my Grandmother Priscilla, and Eversleigh Court where my great-grandparents lived.
‘You have an uncle too, have you not? One who is in the army?’
‘He’s my great-uncle, actually. He’s Carleton really but we call him Carl always to distinguish him from my great-grandfather.’
‘Yours is a long-lived family.’
‘My grandmother was very young when my mother was born and my mother was young when I was born.’
‘I see. It makes a small gap between the generations. Do you see much of your Uncle Carl?’
‘No. Very little until lately. He came with me to York.’
He nodded and was silent for a while and then there was a knock on the door and Aimée came in. She had changed her velvet dress for one of brocade in a bluish shade. The bodice was low-cut and her skin looked pearly. She wore garnets at her throat and in her ears. They suited her. I learned afterwards that they had been a gift from Uncle Paul to his fiancée who, when she had broken off the engagement, had returned all the presents he had given her. I thought he must be very fond of Aimée to have given her his fiancée’s presents.
Before we dined there were arrivals at the castle. The nephew who had visited us at Enderby came with his father. Matthew Field was very like what I remembered of my father—tall and commanding. He seemed very pleased to see me.
‘You are as pretty as my son Ralph described you,’ he told me.
Ralph greeted me like an old friend. ‘It was good of you to come all this way,’ he said. ‘I trust the baby arrived in good condition.’
‘She did, and she is flourishing. I had to stay until she was born. You did understand, I hope.’
‘But of course.’
Dinner was leisurely and lavish. There were a great many dishes, some of which I did not know.
‘We eat heartily up here,’ my Uncle Paul explained. ‘More so than you southerners.’
‘It’s due to the climate,’ said Ralph, it can be bitterly cold up here and we need hot soups, black puddings and hot roast beef in abundance to keep out the cold.’
I felt exhausted after the food and unaccustomed wine, not to mention the journey and the revelations which had disclosed the fact that I had a half-sister. I must have shown this because Uncle Paul said: ‘What Clarissa needs most just now is a good night’s rest. Aimée, take her to her room. She might get lost in the castle.’ He turned to me. ‘People do, you know. That’s until they begin to know the place. It began life as a fortress, but so much has been added over the centuries that sometimes I think it resembles a maze more than a dwelling.’
Aimée rose obediently and, smiling at me, asked if I were ready. I said I was, for I felt a great desire to be alone and digest what I had heard. She took a candle from a chest and lighted me up the stairs.
As we ascended them she waved the candle about and turned to smile at me.
‘It is a little… what you say?… eerie by the light of the
chandelle
.’ Like Jeanne she introduced a French word into her speech every now and then. It added a certain charm to the conversation.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Our house is a little like that too.’
She nodded. ‘But you are not afraid of shadows… not you.’
‘I try not to be.’
‘That is all we can do about anything… try.’
When we came to my room she threw open the door and we entered. A fire was burning in the grate, which gave out a cosiness. ‘I told them you must have a fire,’ she said. ‘It is so cold when the wind blows.’ Heavy curtains had been drawn across the window; the bed quilt was turned back and the four-poster bed looked very inviting.
‘They have put in the warming-pan… you will see.’
‘They are determined to make me comfortable.’
‘We want you to know… Uncle Paul and I… that you are with your family.’
‘You have certainly made me feel that.’
‘Now is there anything else you want… for the night?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you.’
‘If you should want…’ she waved her arms in an expansive gesture… ‘you will ring the bell. So.’ She indicated the bell-rope. ‘Or if there is something I can do… I am not far away. We are both in the turret. I look out to the west… over the countryside… you look out to sea.’
‘Thank you. I’ll remember.’
‘Good night,
ma soeur.
Sleep well.’
She shut the door quietly and went out. I stood staring at it for a few seconds. It was a thick oak door with a latch and a bolt which could be drawn across. On a sudden impulse I went to the door and bolted it.
Then I wondered at myself. Why had I done that? It was almost as though I were afraid. Suppose Aimée came back for something and heard me unbolt the door? It would seem very unfriendly. I drew back the bolt and undressed. The firelight threw flickering shadows round the room. It was warm, cosy… and yet… there was something alien here, something which was almost a warning, and I believed that, tired as I was, I should find it difficult to sleep in this room.
I drew back the curtains as though to let in the outside world. There was a half-moon and it was a clear night. I could see the sea distinctly in the distance. There was a quietness in the air… no wind ruffled the grass of the moorlands. I could get a glimpse of the gate of the castle, majestic in moonlight.
I turned back to the comfort of the fire and got into bed.
I had been right. It was difficult to sleep. I knew there were all sorts of unusual noises in old houses. When darkness falls it is as though those who have lived out their lives within the walls and who cannot rest come out to live again. It was like that at Enderby, but I had grown accustomed to the creak of the wood there. I knew which stair seemed to protest every time one trod on it; I knew that the creaking went on until the early hours of the morning. It would be the same here, but as yet they were to me unfamiliar creaks.
I lay there for about half an hour, sleep eluding me. I dozed once and dreamed the door opened and Aimée came in. She was smiling at me, laughing at me, noting that I lacked her elegance. She was saying. ‘I am your sister
… ma soeur… ma petite soeur.’
I awoke frightened, though there was nothing frightening in the dream. I expected to see her standing by the bed laughing at me. There was no one there. I rose from my bed and bolted the door. I knew that would help me to sleep.
I was so tired that I did fall asleep, and suddenly I was awakened by the sound of voices. They came from below. I sat up in bed, startled.
I thought I heard the sound of horses. I listened intently and went to the window. The moon shone serenely on the moors, and although I could see nothing below me I was aware of the sounds of activity.
I went back to bed. The fire had died down and there was a chilliness in the room. My feet had grown cold. I tucked them into my nightgown and I saw from my watch, which I had laid on the table beside the bed, that it was three o’clock. I tried to sleep, but it was impossible. I was wide awake now.