by Sarah Burton
At that moment Evelyn came and snatched my hand and marched me away so I could not even say goodbye to Katharina. She looked furious.
“Will Grace not come with us?” I asked.
“No,” she snapped. “The little fool will get us all in a deal of trouble.”
And indeed she did. Grace did not come home before our father’s return, but was not missed until supper, when the whole story came out. Evelyn, Frances and I were sent to our room with no supper and no light, where we lay awake, listening for the latch on the garden gate. It never came.
In the morning, we went down as usual for prayers, which were unusually full of hellfire and damnation, and when we had finished our father detained us before we sat down to breakfast. I remember that he did not look at us while he spoke, but kept his eyes turned steadily towards the window.
“Children, I have very bad news to impart to you, concerning your sister. It is the worst sort of news.”
At this, I burst into tears, as I knew poor Grace must be dead. I had worried all night that she may have fallen down a hole, or into a river, or been attacked by murderers on her way home in the dark. Now I knew it was true, and it was all my fault, because I had caused my sisters to stop and watch the players.
“Your sister, whose name my lips refuse to speak, has left this house and will never return. Her infamous behaviour has disgraced us all. It will be a most wonderful thing if our family ever recovers from the shame she has brought upon our house. No respectable man will wish to attach his name to that of a family bemired in vice of the most reprehensible and evil kind. Your sister has ruined us.” He paused for a moment and seemed to hold his breath. Still looking out of the window, he said: “Her name is not to be mentioned again. She is dead to us.”
We sat down to breakfast, but my sisters and I could not eat. My father ate in silence. It was as though the world had ended.
2
One evening, many months later, Frances and I were sitting in the bedchamber I shared with Evelyn hemming handkerchiefs, which was our usual occupation when our father decided we had been reading too much, when Evelyn came in, her face as white as the cotton in my hand.
“Whatever’s the matter?” I asked.
“I’ve seen Grace,” Evelyn said and burst into tears.
When she could speak again Evelyn told us Grace’s tale. That day at the fair the player (Petruchio) had given Grace strong waters and “ill-used” her and she had been too ashamed to come home and face Father. She thought she loved the player and determined to stay with him – they had been to London and he was kind at first but abandoned her when she announced she was with child. “Of course,” Evelyn added. Now she was ill and starving and begging Evelyn to intercede with our father on her behalf. “On her way here, even… to eat,” Evelyn broke down, sobbing into Frances’s shoulder, “she had to… with men… just to eat.”
I didn’t then understand what this meant, let alone how Grace could be having a baby, for Evelyn had not mentioned her being married.
“Where is Grace now?” I asked.
“I left her at the crossroads. She will not come until I have spoken to Father.”
At this Frances jumped up and snatched up her shawl.
“I will go to her,” she said, and ran out.
“He will be kind, will he not, Evelyn?”
Evelyn looked at me.
“I’m sure when he knows she carries his grandchild his heart will soften towards her,” she said and kissed me on the forehead before telling me to stay in our room and disappearing downstairs. I lay down on our bed to await the outcome of the interview but almost immediately heard raised voices. I ran out onto the landing and saw Father emerge from his study, followed by Evelyn, who was hanging onto his sleeve.
“Please, Father, I beg of you, if you won’t have her back at least let her come in and eat something. Grace is—”
Sometimes something happens that changes everything. My father struck Evelyn, hard, across the face.
“I forbid you to mention her name again!” he said. “Ever!”
Evelyn stood absolutely still, her hand to her cheek, staring at him. Something had shifted in her.
“I’m going to bring her back,” she declared, and moved towards the door. My father sprang forward and snatched her by the arm.
“If you leave this house now, you may never return.” His voice sounded strangled. His face was purple. “You are as wicked as she is.”
“It is not me that is wicked!” cried Evelyn, struggling to free herself.
“Don’t go, Evelyn!” I cried, running down the stairs. But she went to the door and was gone.
I stood before my father, trembling.
“Punish me, Father!” I cried. “I was the one who made them watch the play! It’s all my fault! Beat me, lock me up, do what you will, but please don’t send my sisters away!”
He said nothing, but looked at me in a strange new way.
“Evelyn!” I cried, and ran to the door. As I grabbed hold of the latch a sound made me turn back. Father had fallen to his knees, gasping, and was clutching his chest. I knew I should do something. Should I run for the doctor? Or should I stay and help Father? He collapsed sideways and lay on the floor. I hopped from foot to foot, afraid to approach him, afraid to leave him. I snatched his coat from its hook, wrapped it into a bundle and endeavoured to make a pillow for his head. I knelt beside my father, watching him, his deep scooping breaths becoming more laboured, then shallower. Then he was quiet for a few moments and with a great moan he was still.
Now I had killed Father as well as Mother.
Straight after the funeral the whole family gathered at our house, to decide what was to be done with me, Evelyn and Frances, now that we were orphans. That is to say, the whole family except Grace, who was not at the crossroads when my sisters had gone to find her that night. We learned from Clarissa’s husband that she had been taken up by the watch and conveyed to the House of Correction. He was not without influence in the town, being himself a clergyman, and had contrived matters so that her connection with our family was not made public. Clarissa beamed round the table at this great achievement, although we knew that this meant Grace’s baby would be taken from her as soon as it was born. It didn’t seem anything to smile about to my childish mind.
The Reverend Grimwade then talked about finding homes for me, Evelyn and Frances, as though we were so many puppies. He looked expectantly at Diana and her husband.
“I only came to borrow a book!” said Mr Pincher, but no one laughed. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.
“In that case,” Reverend Grimwade said, “Clarissa and I propose to take in Frances. She can help with the children.”
Frances looked as if she were going to be sick. Of all of us she was the least suited to domestic life, being something of a tomboy and always happiest roving about the fields. To keep her indoors – moreover under Clarissa’s chilly eye – would be like tying a bottle to a dog’s tail.
“We will ask Aunt Madge to take in Evelyn,” said Clarissa.
To be parted from Evelyn was a horror I had not thought of. I felt the room and everything in it roll about.
“What about H?” I heard Evelyn saying.
I looked at the grown-ups and they all looked somewhere else. What were they not saying? Where was I going?
Then I saw Evelyn’s chin was trembling and Frances’s face was red. Evelyn was upset and Frances was angry. What did it mean? Then it struck me. Nobody wanted me.
“Let’s see what Aunt Madge says about Evelyn first,” said Reverend Grimwade. “She will earn her keep of course. We seek no charity.”
Now I must fill you in on a piece of family history. Aunt Madge was the widow of a Royalist soldier, killed at Stow-on-the-Wold in the very last battle of the First Civil War. Under the Commonwealth, all his assets had been sequestered. Aunt Madge had married again and the recent death of her second husband and his legacy, added to the recovery of her f
ortune from her first husband after the Restoration, had left her more than comfortably situated. The highlight of our year had always been our trip to London to visit her. Her two sons, who were away at school during our visits, like Grace and Frances, were twins, and identical in appearance but vastly different in their natures. Frederick was quiet and studious, but Roger, the elder, was reputedly a most tearing spark, and a source of great anxiety to her. Perhaps because she had only boys, Aunt Madge was very fond of us girls.
“I won’t go,” Evelyn said, as we lay in bed that night.
“You will,” I said. “You must.”
We were turning the matter over in our minds, when Frances crept in.
“I must tell you something,” she whispered, and we made room for her in our bed. “I’m not going to Clarissa’s,” she said. “I’m going to run away.”
I instantly guessed this had something to do with her soldier-boy. Evelyn and I spent all our idle moments together, but Frances preferred to spend her rare hours of freedom thinking about this boy, for whom she had conceived – it seemed to me – an odd sort of affection. One time I came upon them together in the woods while I was collecting sticks for the fire. I drew back as soon as I saw them, not exactly to spy, rather so as not to be observed while I indulged my curiosity – though Evelyn later pointed out that this was precisely what spying was. I mean to say that I had not set out to spy on them, but now that I was there, I was interested to see what they were doing. It was not at all what I had expected.
Frances appeared to be marching up and down and going through a kind of drill while her soldier-boy shouted orders. She had a stick for a musket and on his command appeared to go through a routine which I supposed involved loading it. After she had done this several times, he caught her by the arm and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away and said “Again!” and they repeated the whole performance. I did not stay to see more, and after I had told Evelyn about it, did not think of it again until much later, and did not understand it until later still.
“But Clarissa is taking you in, Frankie. That is kind, is it not?” I ventured, as although I had never cared much for Clarissa, this had seemed well-intentioned in my eyes.
Evelyn sighed.
“Not as a sister,” she said. “As a servant. Frances will be a living sign of Clarissa’s charity to the world. And full cheaper than a nursemaid.”
“So, in fine, I am not going to Clarissa,” said Frances.
To my surprise, Evelyn did not argue with Frances’s rebellion, as she usually would, being so good and wise.
“The garrison leaves next week for Cheltenham. I am going with it,” she said. “We’ll speak tomorrow.” She kissed us both quickly, scampered off to her own room and left us full of confusing thoughts as to what was to become of us all. Any security I had believed in in this world was vanishing and I held fast to Evelyn that night as I knew she too might disappear, along with every certainty I had hitherto clung to.
3
We awoke the next morning to a knock at the door. It was a messenger boy with a letter. I took it quickly and gave him a penny. I ran up to give it to Evelyn.
“It’s too soon to be from Aunt Madge,” she said. “And look, it is addressed to us both.”
Dear sisters,
Do not worry, I will be quite all right. The boy who delivered this should be proof enough of that.
Love from
Frankie xxx.
I ran to Frances’s room. She was not there but her clothes were. This made no sense. I ran down to the front door to call the boy back, but he was gone. I ran back up to our bedroom window, to see down into the lane. There was the boy. I struggled to open the creaking window and called out “Hie! You! Boy!” and the boy heard me, and turned, and still walking, but backwards, waved to me and smiled, and I saw to my astonishment that the boy was Frances. With her hair cut off and dressed in man’s apparel, she did indeed look just like a boy.
“Come back!” I shouted.
“No fear!” she called back, and was gone.
Most amazed, I ran to Evelyn and told her. She did not look as surprised as I had expected.
“Why?” I cried. “She has cut off all her pretty hair! I don’t understand.”
“She has not just gone away with the garrison,” explained Evelyn, “she will join the garrison.”
“To be a soldier?” I asked, incredulous. “Did you know?”
“Yes,” said Evelyn. “I guessed. That is to say, I suspected.”
“Will she… will she pass for a boy?” I asked.
“What do you think? You answered the door.”
And I had to confess that if I did not recognise my own sister, there was nothing in her appearance to betray her to strangers. Almost flat-chested and with a gait that Clarissa had described as “like a carthorse”, Frances might look more herself as a boy than as a girl. It was all most strange.
“Should we not stop her?” I asked.
Seeing my worried face, Evelyn took my hands and said, “Listen, H. It is what she wants. She has more chance of surviving the army than surviving Clarissa’s nursery. She is free and we can do nothing but wish her well.”
When Clarissa and Diana learned what had happened they quickly gave our neighbours to understand that Frances had joined Grace with distant relations in Scotland. Even in their minds they had put them as far away as possible.
“Another one gone to her ruin,” said Reverend Grimwade. “Thanks be to God your poor parents are not here to suffer this further humiliation,” he added to Clarissa.
“This would appear to be the end of a most distressing episode for us all,” she announced, “and I earnestly hope we will now be able to forget these most undeserving of sisters.”
Even when people died, you remembered them, I reflected. On the tombstones of our parents and Belinda and Abraham, our sister and brother who had died before I was born, it said ‘In loving memory’. To deliberately choose to forget someone seemed to me harsh indeed, especially when they were your own family, and still alive as well.
“H, let this be a lesson of where disobedience ends,” Clarissa added.
“Yes, let this be a lesson,” added Diana, who always liked to remind everyone she was just as respectable as Clarissa.
“However,” Reverend Grimwade said, “I have had a reply from Aunt Madge. She says that she feels it would be impossible to take Evelyn on the terms we suggest.” My selfish little heart sang. She was to be spared to me at least a little longer. “She says H is too young to be parted from her sister and therefore suggests that both Evelyn and H go to live with her.”
And then I don’t know what my heart did – it skipped, it hollered, it turned somersaults. I jumped up and ran to Evelyn and hugged her and we both cried for pure joy and relief.
“You see, it is this unchecked show of emotion the child is subject to which concerns me,” I heard Reverend Grimwade say to Diana’s husband.
“Indeed,” said Mr Pincher, “but she’s not our problem now.”
4
Getting into a stagecoach as a child had a thrilling sensation to it that I have never forgot. Quite apart from the novelty of the scenery, the other passengers who got in and out were always entertaining, even if they said nothing, for Evelyn and I would make up stories about them in our heads which we would compare when we were alone.
I must have slept a good deal of the way for when I woke up it was to the sights and sounds of London, where there is everywhere something to look at, and often to wonder at. The sheer number of citizens always struck me forcibly – how so many people lived and worked in one place, how they did not use up all the air just by breathing seemed incredible. The first time I went to London I did not sleep all night, for there were sounds, be it watchmen, linkboys, carriages, chaises, carts, drunks, dogs, church bells near and far, and other unidentifiable cries and crashes. But by the end of my first visit I was in love with the endless noise and the never-ending parade of trade and trans
port; here you could see the most beautiful people in the world – and the most pitiful wretches – all in the same minute, and, if you had the money, buy anything you could think of. When I went home I could not sleep again, so unused was I to silence, yet the teeming throng of humanity stayed in my head, circling my brains, peopling my dreams for a long time afterwards. Though it was two years since I had been in London, the old sensations quickly came flooding back the moment we were within its great walls.
At home if a coach stopped anywhere everyone looked up to see who would emerge and I felt mightily important if I were one of those people. However, the road to London little by little diminished both the coach and the significance of its occupants, and of course no one looked twice when we got out near Aunt Madge’s house. Everyone was far too busy being Londoners to notice two little girls from the country. Evelyn knew the way to take, and although I was now a great girl of thirteen or thereabouts, I am ashamed to say I still held tight to my sister’s hand in case I should get lost. I sometimes think it is the curse – or blessing – of youngest children that they never quite grow up.
The first to greet us as we arrived at Aunt Madge’s house was a little terrier who barked and barked and would not let us move from the hall until our aunt appeared. She seemed older and more tired than when we had last seen her, but still retained her essential sweetness which made her pretty, and she seemed touchingly pleased to see us, and kissed and embraced us and said how we had grown and we were now quite young ladies and so on. The little dog sniffed us and our shoes and our baggage suspiciously but finally seemed satisfied that we would do and contented himself with following our aunt about.
