Sarah's Story

by Helen Susan Swift

  'Can you speak English?' I knelt at the bedside quite ignoring Kitty, who continued to lie on the floor, although her screaming had stopped, thank the Lord.

  My Frenchman looked up at me, his eyes blank and the most wondrous shade of green. 'Are you an angel?' He asked, quite distinctly in English. 'Am I in heaven?'

  'You do speak English!' I said, 'and with the sweetest accent imaginable.'

  He smiled a trifle uncertainly. 'It is the accent we all have where I come from,' he said. 'Are you an angel?'

  'I am not an angel. I am only a girl.'

  'Oh,' he said. 'That is good. You look like an angel to me,' and with those words my Frenchman promptly slipped away into unconsciousness once more.

  'Oh, you…' I felt like slapping him, I really did, but one does not do such things to shipwrecked French sailors, especially when they have such an interesting physiography – if that is the correct word to describe his face, features and all other factors of his build and appearance. Instead I shook my head and stepped back.

  'Your mother will be expecting you at the inn,' Molly said. 'You can't stay here ogling stray French sailors all day.'

  'Did you hear that Sarah is to be married?' Now that my tail-less Frenchman with the attractive accent was once more in a state of swoon and all covered up, Kitty lost interest in him and turned her attention to me.

  'I heard that,' Molly said. 'You are to be congratulated, Sarah. Lieutenant Baldivere seems a most respectable gentleman, although without any funds to speak of.'

  I smiled. I had nearly forgotten about the good lieutenant in all the excitement about meeting my Frenchman. Now that I remembered, my heart was all a-flutter with renewed expectation of my exciting life to come. Suddenly I could hardly wait to be back with him. This Frenchman with his penchant for falling asleep would be perfectly safe with Molly, unless Kitty chose to peruse any more of him of course. I could not allow that.

  'Come, Kitty,' I said, quite severely, 'It is time that I returned to the inn and I shall not leave you to walk home alone with the island over-run with stray Frenchmen and gurt grockles such as Mr Howard.' A gurt grockle, in case you are not from our island, is a great stranger, and Mr Howard was certainly that. I had not forgotten that particular gentleman and his incessant questioning, for all the visitations of Frenchmen and handsome Volunteers. I grabbed hold of Kitty's arm and hustled her out of the house.

  Chapter Eight

  'You cannot continue to call me Lieutenant Baldivere,' my handsome officer said with a smile. 'My Christian name is David; you must call me that now.'

  I curtseyed my thanks, determined that all should be well between us and a trifle apprehensive lest my lieutenant be scared off once he realised that I was only an inn-keeper's daughter and he was an officer who held the king's commission.

  'David it is,' I said. 'Thank you, sir.'

  'Come, Sarah,' he put emphasis on my name as if to show me that he wished us to be on such familiar terms, 'we are to be man and wife. We should not have to thank each other for such inconsiderable trifles as using our given names.'

  I curtseyed again. We stood outside the Horse Head with a cold wind lifting the tops off the waves in Chale Bay and a company of David's Volunteers lounging around, doing anything except look military as they chewed tobacco or gossiped or even quaffed Mother's ale at prices she had just increased for their benefit. Some just sat on the coarse grass or leaned against the wall of our garden and glowered at the officers.

  'What are your men doing?' I asked.

  'We are just back from a search of the island,' David told me seriously. 'Captain Chadwick is certain that there is a smuggler hiding somewhere among the fields and thickets so we have spent the day scoring the fields.'

  'Did you have any luck?' I asked, sweetly innocent.

  'None,' David dropped his voice. 'Between you and I, dear Sarah, I doubt that there is any smuggler at all. All we are doing is giving the men healthy exercise, which is good for them. They do worship their officers, you see, and need to be kept busy lest they get bored.'

  I nodded. The Volunteers looked as happy as Job in the midst of his trials or the French nobility when told that the guillotine was oiled and ready to be used. Truly I have never seen a more jaded and ill-tempered bunch of men.

  Mother pulled me aside. 'This lot have hardly a farthing to scratch themselves with. They will be on their way soon and not a blade of grass will miss their company.'

  I nodded. 'I don't care much for the private soldiers,' I said, 'they look as if one smile would crack their faces.'

  'Not surprising that they are unsmiling,' Mother said. 'Most of them no more volunteered than the seamen in the Navy. Their landlords ordered them to don the King's uniform or their family would be evicted, so it was Hobson's choice for them.' She nodded toward David. 'Now go and spend some time with your man. Unless you need a chaperone?'

  'No, thank you, Mother,' I said quickly, and nearly ran across to David, who was in the act of dismissing his sourpuss men.

  I watched as he called them all to attention, so the unhappy mob turned into three scarlet lines of men all neatly facing their front, with expressionless faces and the heavy Brown Bess muskets held close to their bodies.

  'All right men,' David said as he walked the length of the front line, adjusting a piece of equipment here and straightening a shako there, much like a mother checking her children before sending them to church on a Sunday. 'We did not find that smuggler today but it was a valuable exercise for when we hunt Boney back to Paris!'

  If David expected a cheer for that he was deeply disappointed, for the only response was sullen silence.

  'Now dismiss; get back to your wives and families and we will continue our search tomorrow.'

  The men moved away, some erect, others round-shouldered and many grumbling. I compared that lot to my monkey-faced Frenchman and wondered how the Volunteers would fare if ten thousand French soldiers, veterans of Bonaparte's Northern Italian and Egyptian campaigns landed on Wight and marched inland. The thought was a bit too sobering for me to linger over so I concentrated on David instead.

  'When shall we name the day?' I asked.

  'Very soon I hope,' David said. 'For only this morning we were informed that the regiment is being posted to Dublin.'

  'Dublin?' I had only been off the island three times in my life; David travelling as far away as Dublin was something I had never considered. 'How romantic!' I thought for a moment. 'But is Dublin not in Ireland?'

  'It is the capital of Ireland,' David extended my education. 'It is one of the most handsome and romantic cities anywhere, with fine architecture and beautiful parks.'

  'Oh,' I said, thinking of something to say that did not sound too silly. 'I will miss you when you are in Dublin.'

  'Officers may take their wives,' David said softly. 'We are marching in two months.' He put a strong hand on my shoulder. 'We need to get the banns read soon, and decide in which church we will get married.'

  I smiled at that. 'Why, David,' I said, 'I know the exact place.'

  Chapter Nine

  'This is Knighton Hazard,' I stopped outside the eighteenth century mansion with the great sweeping stairs that led to the front door and the worn stone pediment above. 'Sometimes we call it the dragon house because of the dragon weather-vane,' I pointed upward in case David did not know where we Wight people habitually place weather-vanes.

  'That is a good name,' David said, 'and this is a fine establishment. Who owns it?'

  'Mr Hugo Bertram,' I said. 'He is an interesting man who has tried to encourage couples to marry in his private chapel. I don't know if anybody had ever agreed, though.'

  'Oh, I see; how kind of him,' David's habitual smile broadened. 'What an amiable fellow.'

  'Mr Bertram got married in there, as did his father and grandfather,' I said, cleverly taking David's hand as I led him through the grounds. There were three other buildings beside the mansion itself. There was the stable block, around ten ti
mes larger than the average cottage; there was a folly sitting on a rise so it dominated the landscape, and there was the chapel with a classical exterior that matched the house, plus a spire topped by a Celtic cross and a small, squat tower. Trust the Bertrams to go the whole hog and have one of everything.

  'Is it open?' David asked as we stood outside the chapel with its high, arched windows with their stained glass designs.

  'Mr Bertram always keeps the doors open,' I said. 'He says that the good Lord never locks anybody outside so why should he.'

  David nodded. 'He must truly be one of the most amiable fellows alive.'

  I looked around. Further to the west and closer to the coast I could see the tall trees that masked Limestone Manor, with which Mr Howard had seemed so interested. I vowed that I would find out what his fascination was, one of these days; unless David took me away before then, of course. The grounds of Limestone ran adjacent to those of Knighton Hazard, but while Mr Bertram had his lands groomed to perfection and tilled and planted to the utmost, those of Limestone were unkempt and neglected. Every piece of land needs an owner, you see, especially in times of national danger. Every man needs a woman to own him too, of course, lest he goes off the straight and narrow and starts to drink and gamble. I would make sure that David did neither of these things. Or not too often anyway.

  Still holding hands, we stepped inside the chapel. It was not the first time I had been inside yet I had never properly looked around me, so please permit me to describe the interior of this place that I came to know uncommonly well.

  The chapel was a perfect cube, with a large square headed door as a main entrance and a smaller door at the side that presumably led to a private domain for the vicar. There were two round-headed stained glass windows on each of the three walls that did not contain the entry door, and a portrait flanking each side of that same door.

  Rows of pews faced a stone altar that was decorated with the most unusual carvings.

  'Roman,' David recognised at once as he stalked toward it, dragging me behind him and so enthusiastic that I am sure he forgot that I was attached to his hand. I staggered and grabbed the altar for support.

  'What do you think?' I said, recovering from my stumble and attempting to extricate my hand from his grasp. Once I succeeded I counted my fingers, ensuring that David could see me so he did not act in such a cavalier manner again. He was excellent raw material but needed a lot of training before he was a fit husband.

  David looked around the chapel. 'It is beautiful,' he said. He focussed on the two portraits that flanked the main entrance. 'Who are these two?'

  'Those are Mr and Mrs Ebenezer Bertram,' I said. 'The chapel and house were built for them.' The portraits caught their likeness exactly, with Mr Ebenezer Bertram in the brilliant scarlet of his full hunting fig, sitting proud on his horse with his dogs at heel and a gaggle of his male children watching from a respectable distance. Across the other side of the door, Mrs Bertram was splendid in a ball gown of shimmering silk, with her hair tall in the fashion of the period and a fan in her hand. Children of the female variety surrounded her in a watchful knot.

  'Very amiable,' David said. Giving me an equally amiable peck on the cheek, he once more gripped my hand and closed the door. 'Now we are alone,' he said.

  'We are,' I agreed. 'Can you imagine getting married in here with all your officer friends in their gorgeous uniforms on one side of the chapel and all the people from the Back of Wight on the other?' I looked around. 'It will indeed be a most splendid occasion.'

  I could nearly hear the vicar giving his sermon and the ripple of comments from the congregation. Oh, I could imagine poor Kitty's face, bright green with envy as she realised that I had beaten her to the altar and she was to be left on the shelf, an old maid compared to my new status as a married woman, and to an officer of good family.

  'It will be the most fun,' David said, which I thought a strange way of talking, until his arm snaked around my waist and he pulled me closer to him than I then had a mind to go.

  'David,' I laughed, thinking it a jape, 'pray release me. This is not the place and there will be time for that after we are man and wife.' I was still very naïve you see, and believed in the honour of his birth and commission.

  'This is a very fine place and time,' he said, with his breathing suddenly ragged and his arm tightening.

  'Let go of me!' I demanded. 'Let me be!' I tried to slap at him with my left hand; my right being pinioned by his arm, you understand.

  He bowed to me, stopping my protests with his mouth as he kissed me. In other circumstances that would have been a very welcome kiss, but at that moment I did not like David very much, much as I thought I loved him.

  'David!' I pulled my mouth away, 'stop that at once!'

  'I thought you loved me,' he said. 'We are to be married in here!' His left hand slipped behind me and onto my rump, grabbing hold in a manner a little too rough for my liking.

  'David!' I screamed, and then there was another voice and another person in the chapel.

  'Enough of that, my bucko!' I recognised James Buckett's harsh voice as David's hands suddenly relaxed and I broke free, gasping and very relieved.

  'Captain Buckett!' I straightened my hair and my clothes simultaneously as the smuggler captain held what seemed like a huge pistol to the head of my David. 'There is no need for that!'

  'Mayhap there is not and mayhap there is,' Buckett did not remove the muzzle of his pistol from David's temple. 'Your mother asked me to keep an eye on you, Miss Sarah and I saw this lobster leading you into the chapel. Just say the word and I'll decorate the walls with his brains.'

  Well, as you can imagine, that offer did not tempt me in the least. I mean, David and I were to be married after all and men do get carried away with themselves sometime. They cannot help it, you see, especially in the presence of a pretty girl as I was. Or so I believed at the time. We do, you know; we give that sort of man far too much leeway and then wonder why so many of us fall into disgrace. Well, ladies, if you are reading my tale, then take a hint from me and don't be attracted to men who attempt to take liberties with you. If you do not wish their attentions, then say so firmly and directly. If they withdraw at once, then they are gentleman, whatever their social standing, and there is hope for them. If they do not withdraw then a swift and hard kick in a very private place is a nearly certain cure, and if you cannot do that, then arrange to have a sturdy smuggling captain standing by with a large pistol.

  'I am sorry,' David proved the truth of my words by dropping his hands and being immediately contrite. The presence of a pistol at his head may have influenced his actions. 'I really don't know what came over me.'

  At any rate I was prepared to forgive and nearly forget, so I accepted his apology at once and proffered my cheek for a chaste kiss.

  'There will be plenty of time for such antics after we are married,' I told him comfortably as James Buckett uncocked his pistol and withdrew a step or two. The circular imprint of the muzzle on David's temple was a suitable reminder, and one that I did not offer to ease with a kiss. I was, I admit, slightly shaken by the whole affair.

  'If that is all you are after,' James Buckett spoke to David from the door, 'I am sure I can find you a whore suitable for your needs.' He remained within the chapel, watching us both.

  'Captain Buckett!' I admonished him. 'There is no need for such foc'sle language within a church. I am surprised at you.' I had heard worse of course; working in an inn with smugglers and foremast hands, one tends to hear a whole range of colourful and expressive language. Sometimes it gave me quite a thrill to hear the phrases men would use and I had quite a number of expressions saved up for any possible argument with my future husband, whoever he happened to be. At that time I thought it would be David, of course, and I was quite resolved to give him a very vivid talking-to on some future occasion when I was secure in our marriage and he had made some fault or other. Men need such a forthright woman, you see. The milk-and-water si
mpering type of wife will not be a helpmate to a real man.

  Buckett took no heed of my strictures. Presumably his own wife addressed him in such terms, or was even more rigorous in her words and actions.

  'Lieutenant Baldivere,' Buckett's voice was low and gruff as any fighting dog. 'If I see you, or hear of you, treating Miss Bembridge in any manner other than that of a gentleman, I will take you out to sea and drop you overboard with a brace of thirty-two-pound cannonballs tied to each of your ankles.'

  'I assure you, sir…' Poor David began, until he realised that he was talking to an open door. Buckett had left without another word.

  Well, Buckett's little intervention rather dampened David's ardour and my enthusiasm for showing him more of the estate, so we returned to the Horse Head. The day had not quite gone as I had hoped, really. Still it could have been worse and I had the memory of a kiss or two.

  Chapter Ten

  'Sarah!' Mother knew no other name save mine that morning. I scurried back downstairs, mop in hand and perspiration on brow.

  'Yes, Mother?'

  'Get you along to Mrs Downer in Chale. Ask her if she has any more chickens ready for us yet.' Mother gave me her most venomous glare, 'well move then, girl: what are you standing there for?'

  Leaving the mop and bucket behind the counter, I picked up my travelling cloak and fled. It was something of a relief to get away from Mother's harping voice that morning, and I breathed deeply of the bright air the second I stepped outside.

  The air was crisp with a cheerful bite that reminded of the past winter and made it good to be alive. Chale is our nearest village, a short stroll along the road, but Mrs Downer lived in a cottage all by itself a few minutes' walk to the westward.

  I banged the inn door shut to express my displeasure at being treated like a skivvy, set my shoulders to prove I was in a monumental huff, lifted my skirt free from the worst of the dew on the grass and set out quite happily toward Chale. If that sounds like a bit of an oxymoron, remember that I was very young and there is nothing that pleases a young girl more than to be at the centre of a piece of drama. I resolved to keep my Monday face on as long as I could, and seek sympathy for my sorrows.