‘It won’t be. It has to be you, for she knows that you are the only one for me. Therefore you are for her. Give her her heart’s desire. She is a lady who likes everything to be well ordered, neatly rounded off. She took the husband your grandmother Clarissa wanted, and although to her her marriage was perfect—you see, she finds perfection in her relationships—she was always worried because she took him from Clarissa. Now if Clarissa’s granddaughter married the son of that other Dickon whom both Clarissa and Sabrina loved, it would be a neat rounding off, wouldn’t it? Everyone can say amen and be happy.’
I laughed. ‘Except perhaps the two who had to bring about this neat solution.’
‘They would be happiest of all. You are learning that, Lottie. I have always known it.’
‘Oh, I remember. You were always omniscient. I shall have to go back to my father soon.’
‘We will bring him over here. I assure you that in a very short time men in his position will be giving everything they have to get away from the coming storm.’
That was the only time he mentioned our marriage. He let Eversleigh do the rest and more and more every day I longed to give in.
One night after I had retired there was a knock on my door and Sabrina came in.
‘I was afraid you might have gone to bed,’ she said. ‘I want you to have a look at this.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a diary.’
‘Oh … an old one? One of those family ones?’
‘Not those weighty journals. This is quite a slim volume, you see. When Griselda died we found it in Isabel’s room. It was caught up at the back of a drawer, otherwise I am sure Griselda would never have allowed it to fall into our hands.’
‘A diary! I always thought it was like prying to read other people’s diaries.’
‘So do I. But I did read this one. I felt it was important, and I do think it is important that you should see it.’
‘Why me?’
She laid the book on the table beside my bed and I felt reluctant to touch it.
‘Because I think you may have some misconception. This is the truth. It must be, because it was written by Isabel herself.’
‘Has Dickon seen it?’
‘No. I did not think that was necessary. I did give it to the twins, though. Griselda used to make a great deal of Jonathan. She used to have him to her room.’
‘Yes. I do remember that.’
‘She had a crazy notion that David killed Isabel. I suppose it was the second birth which weakened her, but Griselda—mad old woman—actually blamed David. That shows how senile she was.’
‘Yes. I see what you mean.’
‘Read it,’ she said. ‘I think it will tell you a great deal.’
She kissed me and left me.
The reluctance to open the book persisted. Diaries contained private thoughts. Perhaps it held an account of Dickon’s meeting with her, their early life together. In view of my own strong feelings for Dickon I found the thought of prying quite distasteful.
However I got into bed and lighted an extra candle, opened the book and started to read.
I became absorbed almost immediately. I was seeing Isabel clearly—the quiet, shy daughter of a powerful man—a man who loved her and wanted the best for her but who really did not understand what was the best.
There were references to Griselda. She was mentioned on every page. There were intimate little details. ‘Griselda curled my hair in rags last night. I found it hard to sleep for them, but Griselda said I must keep them in so that I had curls next day.’ ‘Griselda has put a blue fichu on my white dress. It looks rather pretty.’ There were accounts of assemblies she had been to. She wrote of her dread of them, her painful shyness. I went on reading until I came to the entry about Dickon.
Today I met the most handsome man I have ever seen. He is in London from the country where, my father says, he owns a large estate. He asked me to dance and I did … most awkwardly. He said he wasn’t much of a dancer either and he didn’t mind my mistakes at all. He talked a great deal, so cheerily and wittily. I couldn’t keep up with him. My father was very pleased.
Yesterday my father sent for me and I knew he had something very serious to say because he called me ‘Daughter’. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘you have a suitor.’ Then he told me it was Richard Frenshaw. It is that wonderful man who danced with me. I don’t know how I feel. I am in a panic and yet it might have been that horrible old Lord Standing. Instead it is this wonderful, handsome man. ‘But,’ I said to Griselda, ‘at least Lord Standing would not have minded that I am not clever and that my hair will not curl unless it is all night in rags, and that I stumble when I dance and am shy.’ Griselda said, Nonsense. He would be lucky to get me, and he knew it. I had a great fortune coming to me and that was when men liked. Moreover she would always be with me. That was my great comfort.
There were several entries about the clothes which were being made and the announcement of the engagement at a ball given by her father. There were meetings with Dickon—brief and never alone. And then the entry: ‘Tomorrow I am to marry Richard Frenshaw.’
Evidently after that she had not written in it for a long time. Then there were the brief entries.
‘This afternoon it rained and there was some thunder.’ ‘Went to the Charletons’ ball.’ ‘We had a dinner party for twenty.’ Just bald statements with very little hint of what she was feeling. Then it changed.
Another disappointment. Shall I ever achieve my heart’s desire? If I could have a little baby it would make up for everything. Dickon wants a boy. All men do. I wouldn’t mind what it was … just a baby. That’s what I want.
I saw Dr Barnaby today. He said there should be no more pregnancies and that he should speak to my husband. I begged him not to. I told him how much having a child meant to me. He shook his head and kept saying, ‘No. No.’ Then he said: ‘You have tried and failed. You did your best. Now, no more.’ They don’t understand, I must have a child. If I don’t I shall have lost Dickon completely. It is the only way.
There is to be another chance. Griselda will be angry. She hates Dickon because of this. It is silly of her, but then she is silly sometimes. I know it is only because of her feeling for me, but she is so difficult. She gets so anxious and worried. She frightens me. I haven’t told her yet. I haven’t told anyone. I want to be sure. I am determined this time my child will be born.
They know. Dickon is delighted. That makes me so happy. He takes a lot of notice of me and makes me take care of myself. I could be happy if only … But it will be all right this time. It must be.
Dr Barnaby has been today. I have had a long talk with him. He is concerned about my condition. He says he should not have allowed me to dissuade him from speaking to my husband. ‘However,’ he said, ‘it is done. You must be very careful. You must rest and rest. If you can get through the first three months we can still hope.’
Three months … and all is well. How I long for the time to pass. Every morning I awake and I say to myself rather like someone in the Bible: ‘I am with child. God be praised.’
My time is getting near. I have dreams … sometimes nightmares. It is because of all those failures. I saw Dr Barnaby today. I had a long talk with him. I said to him: ‘I must have this child. More than anything I want it.’ ‘I know that,’ he replied. ‘Now pray don’t get upset. It is bad for the little one.’ ‘I have had so many disappointments,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t bear another.’ ‘Do as you are told,’ he answered, ‘and it will very likely be all right.’ ‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘there is a choice between mother and child. If there is a choice I want it to be the child who is saved.’ ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he said. But I knew I wasn’t. I said, ‘I want you to promise me … ’ He looked exasperated and I remembered how he used to frighten me when I was a little girl and I hadn’t taken my physic. ‘This is nonsense,’ he said sternly. ‘You are worrying yourself about something which hasn’t happened.’ But
I refused to be frightened of him. I insisted, ‘But it may. I have had difficult pregnancies, all of which so far have ended in disaster. I know that if I failed this time there would not be another chance. I want you to promise me … that if this situation should arise you will save the child and let me go.’ ‘These matters are for a doctor to decide when they happen,’ he said. ‘I know,’ I cried. ‘I am saying if … if … if … !’ ‘You are getting agitated,’ he said, ‘and that is bad for the child.’ ‘I shall be more agitated until I have your promise.’ ‘This is very unethical,’ he said severely. But I would not let him go. I made him swear. I brought my Bible to him, for I knew he was a very religious man, and only when he began to get alarmed for my state did he swear. He said, ‘If such a contingency should arise—and there is no reason to believe it will—and if there should be a choice between the lives of the mother or the child, then I swear I will save the child.’ He stayed by me for five minutes until he had satisfied himself that I was calm. I was calm, calm and happy, for something told me that whatever happened there would be a child.’
There was one more entry.
The time is near. It could be any time now. Today I went and looked at my nursery. The cradle is ready for the child. I had a vision. It was so strange. The cradle seemed to be surrounded by light and I knew there was a healthy child in it. I did not see myself. It seemed unimportant. The child was there.
I laid down the book. I was deeply moved.
The next morning Sabrina looked at me expectantly, when I put Isabel’s diary in her hands.
I told her how touched I had been.
‘She was such a dear, good girl. I remember it so well. She was so long in labour. Jonathan was born easily enough. It was David. They had to take him away from her and she didn’t survive. Dr Barnaby was very unhappy. When I saw the diary I knew why. I often wondered if he could have saved Isabel at the cost of David. It would not have occurred to me to think so if I had not read the diary. But I wanted you to see it because of Griselda. I think it turned her brain. Isabel with her child … the whole meaning of life to her. When she lost her there was nothing to live for, so she went back to the past. She was bitter and angry and she blamed Dickon. She had it in her mind that there had been a choice between Isabel and the baby and that Dickon had made the choice to save the child. She called him a murderer. I wondered whether Isabel had ever mentioned her own feelings to Griselda. It was clearly very much on her mind, as you see from the diary. It was dreadful to live in the house with that. I wanted to turn her away but your grandmother was against it, and I don’t think Griselda could have gone on living if she hadn’t had Isabel’s things to brood on. It was a great relief when she died.’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘There was a time when I thought she would do David some harm. And she made too much of Jonathan. It was almost as though she was trying to set the boys against each other … and certainly against their father. If only … ’
She was looking at me appealingly.
‘Lottie,’ she went on, ‘if you came back to us, it would be like a fresh start for us all. It was what we wanted, your grandmother and I. It was only your mother who was against it. You were blaming Dickon, weren’t you? Griselda had told you something. But you don’t believe her now, do you?’
I said: ‘I see clearly what happened through Isabel’s diary.’
‘You know that there was nothing callous about Dickon’s behaviour to her. He was always kind to her. It wasn’t his fault that he was not in love with her.’
‘I know.’
She bent over and kissed me.
‘I am glad you understand now,’ she said.
I did. I saw clearly that in this respect I had wronged Dickon.
They were winning me over.
A few days later Dickon was called to London.
‘I shall be away for a week at most,’ he said.
I asked Sabrina what sort of business he had in London.
She was vague. ‘Oh, he inherited a lot of property through Isabel.’
‘I knew she was very rich and that was the reason for the marriage.’
She looked at me sharply. ‘Isabel’s father was very eager for the marriage. So was Isabel herself. There was a very big settlement and when her father died a great deal came to Isabel.’
‘And now to Dickon,’ I said. ‘Is it something to do with banking?’
‘Something like that,’ said Sabrina. ‘He goes often. Not so much of late because you are here, I expect. But he travels a good deal normally. He was very concerned in all that about the American War.’
‘Yes, I gathered that. He came to France because the French were helping the Colonists.’
‘He came to France to see you,’ said Sabrina fondly.
It was only two days after Dickon had left when the messenger came bringing a letter from Lisette, and I knew that something was wrong before I opened it.
‘You should leave at once,’ she had written. ‘Your father is very ill indeed. He was calling for you when he was delirious. He has said that we are not to send for you but we thought you would want to know. I think, if you want to see him before he dies, you should return at once.’
Sabrina had seen the messenger arrive and came down to see what it was all about.
‘It’s my father,’ I said. ‘He is dangerously ill.’
‘Oh, my dear Lottie!’
‘I must go to him at once,’ I said.
‘Yes … yes, of course. Dickon will be back soon. Wait and hear what he has to say.’
‘I must leave at once,’ I said firmly.
The messenger was standing by. Sabrina pointed out that he looked exhausted and called one of the servants to take him to the kitchens and give him food. He would want to rest too.
When they had gone she turned to me.
‘I don’t think Dickon would want you to go back. He has talked to me about the state of France and was so glad that you had left at last.’
‘This has nothing to do with Dickon,’ I said. ‘I am going and I shall leave tomorrow.’
‘Lottie, you can’t!’
‘I can and I must. Oh Sabrina, I am sorry but you must understand. This is my father. He needs me. I should never have left him.’
‘You said that he wanted you to come, didn’t you?’
‘He did because … ’
‘I dare say he thought you were safer here. He would know … as Dickon did.’
I wanted to stop her talking about Dickon. I was going and that was it. I could not possibly stay here while I knew my father was ill …dying, perhaps, and calling for me.
‘I am going to get ready immediately,’ I said.
She caught my arm. ‘Wait, Lottie. Don’t be so hasty. Suppose I sent someone to London to tell Dickon.’
‘It would take too long and this has nothing to do with Dickon.’
‘He will be upset if you go.’
‘Then he must be upset because I am going.’
‘The children … ’ she said.
I hesitated. Then I made up my mind. ‘They can stay here if you will allow it. They can come home later. I will go alone and as quickly as I can.’
‘My dear Lottie, I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. Dickon … ’
‘I will go and see the messenger. He can have a good night’s rest and I will go back with him. He will start first thing in the morning.’
‘If only Dickon were here!’
‘Nothing would stop me, Sabrina. The children will be happy here. They must stay?’
‘Of course. Of course.’
‘Perhaps Dickon and you, too, will come back with them and stay for a while at the château.’
She looked at me fearfully. ‘If you are intent on going you must take two grooms with you. There are certain things you will want to take for a journey … and it will be safer. You must do that. I insist.’
‘Thank you, Sabrina,’ I said, and I went to the kitchens to find the m
essenger.
Farewell France
I HALF HOPED THAT Dickon would come back that night. I knew he would attempt to persuade me not to leave but when he saw that I was adamant, it might well be that he would come with me.
I longed for him to do that. I was terrified of what I would find when I returned to France and kept reproaching myself for leaving my father even though it was he himself who had insisted that I should do so.
Eversleigh was not far from Dover and the journey was quickly accomplished. The crossing was smooth, for the weather was good. It was when we reached the other side of the Channel that everything seemed different.
The July sun beat down on us; there seemed to be a stillness in the air, a breathlessness as though the country was waiting for some tremendous event. It was something in the atmosphere of the towns through which we passed. Sometimes we saw little knots of people standing together in the streets. They watched us furtively as we rode through; they seemed to be whispering together. Some of the towns were deserted and I imagined that people were peeping at us through their windows.
‘Everything seems to have changed in an odd sort of way,’ I said to one of the grooms.
He said that he noticed nothing.
We came to the town of Evreux and I remembered how, when I had first come to France with my father, we had stayed there. It seemed very different now. There was that same air of brooding menace which I had noticed in the towns and villages through which we had passed.
I was very relieved when the château came into sight. I spurred up my horse and rode into the courtyard. One of the grooms took the horse and I hurried into the castle. Lisette, who must have been watching from one of the windows came running into the hall.
‘Lisette!’ I cried.
‘So you have come, Lottie.’
‘I want to see my father at once.’
She looked at me and shook her head.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked quickly.
‘He was buried nearly a week ago. He died the day after I sent the message to you.’
Zipporah's Daughter Page 29
