Circle of Pearls

by Rosalind Laker

  The journey was not far and it was mid-afternoon when Julia caught her first glimpse of Oxford. The ancient seat of learning with its medieval buildings and narrow streets was bathed in autumnal sunshine that gave a gilded warmth to the grey stone and every tree was afire with red and orange hues. Christopher was waiting at the hostelry where she and Susan were to stay and greeted her with good wishes for her special day.

  ‘I thank you! Coming to Oxford is a wonderful way to celebrate,’ she answered while her hands carried out the same words in sign language to show him she had been practising and had forgotten nothing.

  He nodded admiringly. ‘Well done!’

  They entered the hostelry and he went with her to the large room that she and his sister were to share. While Susan bustled about, telling the porters where to set down the travelling chests, Julia hurried across to the window to see what view she had of the University. Then she turned and was about to pass some excited comment when Christopher, standing near the door, spoke to her in sign language. It was a message that caused her to smother a happy exclamation with her hand clapped to her mouth. She glanced around quickly to see if her action had been noticed but Susan was now instructing the chambermaids about unpacking.

  ‘Would you mind if I went out with Christopher for a little while?’ Julia asked cautiously.

  ‘Not at all.’ Susan sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’ve no intention of chaperoning you all round Oxford and anyway I’m going to rest for a while. I always need to do that these days after a journey.’

  Julia hastened out of the room to join Christopher, who had withdrawn to the corridor. ‘Where is he?’ she asked eagerly, on tip-toe with suspense.

  He frowned slightly to warn her against eavesdroppers and replied in sign language. She nodded and sped along the corridor to a room at the end where she entered immediately. The young man waiting there sprang forward to catch her outstretched hands as she darted to him.

  ‘Michael!’ she exclaimed joyfully.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Julia!’ Then brother and sister hugged each other exuberantly.

  ‘You look more French than English!’ she declared when she had congratulated him on his marriage, standing back to study him. ‘That thin moustache suits you and your clothes must be Parisian. We don’t see gentlemen in such elegant style these days.’

  ‘You have confirmed that my disguise as a French silk merchant on business in England is deceiving enough. But more of that later. What a transformation in you, little sister, since I left! You’ve grown up to be slightly better-looking than I dared to hope.’

  She laughed at his teasing. He had not been changed by his years in exile as the King was said to be. Then they had so much to ask each other; such a lot to tell. They were both able to fill in details that had had to be left out in letters owing to fear of possible confiscation of the correspondence en route, he fearful of drawing down trouble on their heads and they withholding anything slanted against Parliament for the same reason.

  ‘What made you start out on this dangerous visit to England?’ she wanted to know.

  He told her he had been approached in Paris by a representative of King Charles to ask if he would risk his life by taking some papers to a nest of royal activists in Warwickshire, the last spy sent having been killed. ‘I’ve long wanted to see you all at Sotherleigh again and I seized the chance of getting the necessary forged travel documents. Monsieur Brissard made no opposition to my going. Since gaining an English son-in-law he has taken up our Royalist cause. He was always in our favour, having told me many times how appalled he had been by King Charles’s execution and how nothing like that could ever happen in France.’

  Then Michael went on to explain how he had made brief contact with Christopher on the journey through Oxfordshire into Warwickshire, not wanting to lose this chance of seeing his old friend again. Then, upon hearing that Julia was at Bletchingdon, he had asked Christopher to arrange a meeting for him on his way south again with his mission accomplished. The intense secrecy was to spare Susan the obligation of having to keep the knowledge of his being in England to herself and also to avoid chance recognition by anyone who knew or had served him during his Oxford days.

  ‘Now tell me more about everyone at Sotherleigh,’ he urged.

  When it was her turn to question him again, she was eager to hear about her French sister-in-law. ‘What is she like? Pretty, I’m sure.’

  ‘You may judge for yourself.’ He dived into his pocket and drew out a pouch embroidered with white fleur-de-lis on a green silk ground from which he removed a gold-rimmed painted miniature. ‘Here she is.’

  Julia took the oval miniature and held it in the palm of her hand. A pale French face looked out at her with a seductively hooded gaze that would intrigue any man. Her skin was flawless, her Gallic bones exquisitely formed and her mouth small and pink with a glisten to the lips. In appearance she could not be faulted, but Julia could detect no warmth or generosity in those almost perfect features, although that could be blamed on the artist’s inability to capture anything but the surface beauty of the young woman. ‘You have a beautiful wife,’ she declared sincerely, returning the miniature to her brother. ‘Where did you first meet?’

  ‘The very day I was taken into Monsieur Brissard’s employ. It was not a case of love at first sight for either of us. She simply came to her father’s office by chance and I was presented to her. That was that, except that I had been struck by her haunting and unusual beauty as people always are. I saw her occasionally when she came to the business premises, but we never spoke. Then when I was eventually promoted to manager I was invited into the family circle and that’s when it all began. Her father gave me permission to court her since I was now socially of the standard required and six months ago Sophie and I were wed.’

  ‘I’m sure you had many rivals for a hand such as hers.’

  ‘I believe I did.’

  As with the miniature she felt that in his reply there was something that had not quite fallen into place. He looked smiling enough at this talk of Sophie, but knowing her brother’s exuberant, outgoing nature, she would have expected him to burst into lively talk about his exquisite wife as soon as initial news had been exchanged. Instead he had waited until she extended her information beyond the family circle to tell him that George Gunter had had to flee abroad and that the old head gardener’s son, Titus, had managed to get taken on as one of Makepeace’s outdoor staff and kept the maze trimmed. Michael had even heard her out, still without mention of Sophie, when she had told how Makepeace had demanded a plan of the maze and Anne had taken it from Katherine’s drawer and given it to him. Even as this was in her thoughts Michael spoke of the maze himself.

  ‘Does Makepeace ever go into the maze?’

  ‘No. He went once, I believe, but that was all.’

  ‘Then he doesn’t suspect the secret entrance there?’

  ‘Not at all. You’d be able to en’er Sotherleigh as freely as Father did sometimes in the war.’

  ‘I’ll have to go in by night to make contact. It will have to be with Mary or Sarah. Then during the day Mother can come to see me in the underground chamber.’

  ‘If Grandmother isn’t too well, Sarah sleeps in a truckle bed in her room. So Mary is the one you must awaken.’ Julia thought of what it would mean to Mary to start from sleep to see him at her bedside. The poor girl would think that some dream had come true. ‘Don’t let her cry out in surprise. It’s unlikely that anyone would hear, but you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘I may have to put my hand over her mouth until she realizes who I am. Where shall I find her?’

  ‘She has the bedchamber next to mine in the west wing.’ Julia then told him everything else she could think of that would eliminate danger for him when he entered Sotherleigh again. He had had the foresight before leaving for France to take the key to one of the side gates and she told him to leave his horse tied up out of sight in a copse there. Mary would contact Titus
, as much a Royalist as his grandfather had been, and he would take care of the animal until it was needed again.

  Two hours passed by like so many minutes. He gave her a gift of azure Lyonnaise silk and then had to go. Julia was left to discover the marvels of Oxford under Christopher’s guidance and to view the stars by telescope in his observatory.

  As Michael rode away he thought what a blessing it was that his country was no longer at war. With his dangerous assignment behind him he could travel quite freely, and when staying overnight at a hostelry the French accent and Gallic gestures he adopted caused curious glances but no suspicion or hostility.

  It was a bright moonlit night when he slid back the Queen’s Door and entered Sotherleigh after more than seven years away. He inhaled the house’s mingled fragrances of oak and lavender and candle wax as if he were in a flower garden. Throughout his time away he believed he had adapted to life in France, that nothing there was as alien as it had first appeared, but he knew now it had been a myth, an opiate to sustain him in a place where he did not belong. Back here in his birthplace, he felt his torn-out roots assert themselves to go snaking down invisibly from his feet to lodge fast in the good Sussex soil on which Sotherleigh stood. How was he ever going to be able to leave again when the clock came round to this hour tomorrow?

  It was not as if Sophie’s arms would be waiting to welcome him back. If that had been the case a second parting from Sotherleigh would have been easier to bear. He had been deeply in love with her when she became his bride and he loved her still, but she had married him for reasons of her own and if she loved anyone it was herself. It seemed incredible to him now that he had not perceived how it was to be between them. Chaperonage in France was even stricter than in England and until their wedding night he had had only five minutes alone with her in which he asked her to be his wife, well aware even then that her mother and two aunts were listening at the door. Upon her acceptance he had seized the chance to kiss her and he had smiled over her chaste response, thinking her inhibited by those unseen eavesdroppers and that all would be different when they were married and under their own roof.

  But she had not wanted to leave her parents’ home. On the same evening as their betrothal she had pleaded with him in her soft, coaxing way, her fascinating amber eyes looking up at him under those deep lids.

  ‘Why should we move elsewhere until it is time for you to take me to Sotherleigh? I want it to be our first real home together. Anywhere strange here in Paris would spoil that special dream of mine.’

  He had agreed to her whim, charmed that already through her love of him, Sotherleigh meant so much to her. Their betrothment was purgatory for him. He scarcely knew how to stop himself from whisking her away. To him her long-lashed glances and air of mystery suggested erotic discoveries once they were wed. He could not have been further from the truth. Those lidded looks had hidden a wariness of life and what he had taken to be mysterious was only a cool defence against any close relationship with others.

  Slowly he ascended the Grand Staircase and with a frown saw a portrait of the late Lord Protector where the Queen’s visage had been. The stairs creaked and he paused now and then to ensure that nobody stirred. The moonlight touched the flower screen with silver and he remembered how once in boyhood he had climbed it to the ceiling, risking his neck and getting a box on the ears from Katherine when he came down again.

  He was passing the screen when suddenly there came a dull thud. Immediately he froze, listening intently. It had come from above him in the attics and he had the extraordinary feeling that someone up there had become equally motionless, fearful of having been heard. But according to Julia the servants were still in the old quarters, the women in rooms leading off the kitchen passageway and men in accommodation above the coach house. If someone was in the attic, prying about, it added to his danger, for at any time he might meet the person when he or she came down again. He changed his direction and went silently to where he could stand concealed by a cupboard and watch the narrow flight that led up to the door that shut away the attics.

  Someone was coming down from there. Candle-glow danced ahead on the lower treads and there was a swish of a silk robe. Then to his astonishment he saw his mother appear. At first he thought she must be sleep-walking, but her actions were as stealthy as his and she glanced about nervously. ‘Mother!’ he whispered. ‘It’s Michael. I’m here!’

  She put a hand to her chest as if her heart had lurched with shock and she swayed. He took the candle from her as she fell against him, weeping with joy.

  ‘My son! I can hardly believe it. What is happening? Are there Cavaliers with you? Has the King returned?’

  ‘No, Mother. I’ll explain everything. Let’s go down to the Queen’s Parlour where we can talk.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She became extremely agitated. ‘It’s almost dawn and I must get back to my room before then. Let’s go somewhere nearer. To Mary’s room! That’s it.’ Her maternal instincts came to the surface. ‘You need to be fed. She will prepare something for you and find you fresh clothes from those we have kept for your return. I’ll have to meet you later underground.’

  He peered into her face. ‘Why are you so frightened? Is your husband ill-treating you?’ His voice hardened. ‘If he is I’ll — ’

  She shook her head wildly. ‘No, but I don’t want him questioning me about why I should not be in my room if he wakes. When I can’t sleep I like to — wander about.’

  ‘In the attics?’ he exclaimed incredulously, keeping up with her as she almost ran in the direction of Mary’s bedchamber.

  ‘It’s peaceful there,’ she answered vaguely. They had reached Mary’s door. Anne opened it, peeped in and then beckoned that he should follow, taking the candle from her. ‘Shut the door quietly and stay in the shadows. I’ll prepare her.’ Crossing to the four-poster she touched the sleeping young woman on the shoulder. ‘Mary. Wake up.’

  Mary stirred and then sat up abruptly, pushing a wave of hair back from her face, the candle-glow full on her. ‘Oh! What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Quite the reverse. Michael is here.’

  He was watching her, seeing instantly that she had the same vulnerable look about her which had first touched him when he had seen her passing on her way to the gallows. Yet now she was twenty-three and good-looking where once she had been only mildly pretty — her features full of character as if she had laughed and cried much in the interim since he had last seen her. Neither was her figure any longer that of a slip of a girl, her breasts full against the soft lawn of her nightgown. Then, as she grasped what had been said to her, her whole face became suffused with such yearning that it was dazzling. He experienced an echo of the way she had suddenly roused him seven years ago in the underground room.

  ‘Where is he, Anne?’ she whispered tremulously.

  He left the shadows then to go to the foot of the bed. She sprang from it and then seemed transfixed, unable to take a step towards him, hands clasped in front of her. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mary,’ he said smiling.

  ‘I can talk now. My voice is healed.’

  That information had been sent to him long since in letters both from her and his mother in carefully guarded language that spoke of her having outgrown a certain injury, but he understood this was something she had long wanted to say to him personally. He had already noticed that her voice was soft and husky in tone, pleasing to the ear. ‘So I can hear.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I wish I’d been here when your voice returned.’

  Anne had fetched a robe for her from the closet and she put her arms into it automatically, finding it impossible to take her eyes from him. She thought it fortunate that he was busy telling of his seeing Julia and Christopher in Oxford, Anne full of busy little questions, and did not notice her hungry, unswerving gaze.

  He looked older, all the more attractive because of it, and the French-style moustache gave him a dashing air. Yet it might have been yesterday that he rode away beside an effigy of he
r on horseback, Joe at the other side. She still loved him as much now as then. Perhaps not in quite the same way because of the years between, for she was now more his equal, accustomed to elegant manners and a standard of living that she had never known before he had brought her to Sotherleigh. If he had still been single, she would have been strong enough in will to refuse to be left behind this time. That thought alone crushed agonizingly all her most tender feelings for him as she accepted that it could no longer matter to him either way.

  He had taken a miniature of his wife from his pocket to show Anne and her. It was like a knife-thrust when his mother had declared Sophie most lovely and then handed the miniature to her. She had to force herself to study the face of the woman that had captured his heart.

  Anne, loath to leave her son but frantic to get back to her bed, promised that she would see him at the first chance later. Then she fled away. He re-pocketed the miniature.

  ‘When did you last eat?’ Mary asked on a safe and practical note.

  ‘I had a late dinner yesterday and nothing since. I was eager to get home and so stopped as little as possible on the ride from Oxford.’

  Mary took a candle and lighted the way down to the kitchen. There was an hour yet before the servants stirred. In the large pantry she found a cold game pie, bread, butter and pickles. He did justice to the impromptu meal while she sat on the bench opposite him at the table.

  ‘Your good health, Mary.’ He raised the tankard of ale she had poured for him and drank thirstily. ‘The French may have the best wines in the world, but nothing can beat a good English ale when a man has a parched throat.’

  She had expected him to talk incessantly about Sophie. Surely that was what young men did when they were in love? Instead he spoke of his work in Paris, of his trips to Lyon to select and buy the silks for which France was famous. He told how Joe continued to thrive and recounted several amusing anecdotes about him that made her laugh.

  ‘Whereabouts in Paris is your home?’ she asked when his vivid descriptions of the city had enabled her to picture the flowing Seine, the water traffic and the narrow streets virtually unchanged since medieval times.