Lament for a lost lover

So the years passed; now and then my parents would be with us. They were times of rejoicing. But then they would go away, very often out of France, for the King was in Cologne most of the time and where he was they must be. Sometimes during their brief stays at Congreve I used to listen to their talk over the dinner table when Lucas and I were allowed to join them. There would always be some scheme for taking the King back to his rightful place. The people were tiring of Puritan rule. They were remembering the old days of the Monarchy. “Soon now ...” they used to say. But still it failed to happen, and life at Chateau Congreve pursued its pleasant way. We would all be melancholy after our parents had left, then some new game would absorb us and we would forget them and forget about going home. The days of exile were sweet enough, and we were soon back to the old game of outwitting that lovable bogey, Miss Black.

One morning Miss Black did not appear. She was found dead in her bed. She had died during the night of a stroke. And instantly, it was said, so she suffered no pain. She had died as discreetly as she had lived, and she was buried in the cemetery close to the chateau, and every Sunday we would take flowers to her grave. We could not inform her relatives even if she had any, for all we knew was that they were in England and naturally we could do nothing about that.

We talked about her a great deal; we missed her sadly. Not to have to escape from her, not to poke gentle fun at her made a great gap in our lives. Once I caught Lucas crying because she wasn’t there anymore, and after accusing him of being a cry-baby I found myself weeping with him.

When my parents came to the chateau and heard of the death of Miss Black, they were horrified.

“The little ones must not miss their lessons,” said my mother. “We cannot have them growing up ignorant. My dearest Arabella, it is up to you to make sure that this does not happen. You must teach them as Miss Black would have done until we can find another governess, which I fear will not be easy.”

I enjoyed my new role, and I was soon flattering myself that the children’s education had not suffered as much as my parents feared. I was playing a part and I believed I did it very well.

It was a dark winter’s afternoon when the strolling players arrived. The wind had started to howl in from the north, and when it did that it buffeted the walls of the chateau and seemed to creep in through every aperture and discover those which we had not known were there before. In the centre of the hall we had an open fire. The chateau was very primitive and couldn’t have changed much since the days when the Normans settled in these parts and built their stone-walled fortresses, of which this was one. I used to imagine the tall blond Vikings clanking into the hall and sitting round this fire telling stories of their wild adventures. It was afternoon, but so dark because of the snow clouds, when we were startled by a clatter in the courtyard and the sound of horses.

As the chatelaine of the castle, very much aware of her position, I summoned Jacques, our only manservant, to discover what was happening.

He looked a little uneasy, and memories far back in my childhood were stirred. I was reminded of the terror at Far Flamstead when we feared the Roundhead soldiers might pay us a call, and if they did we knew they would take our food, our horses, and if our homes were grand they would destroy them because they did not believe that anyone should have fine clothes or luxurious surroundings. The believed that people could only be good if they were uncomfortable.

But then we were not in England, and in any case the war was over and I supposed people now lived peacefully in their homes even in England, and probably enjoyed their comforts in secret if they could manage to.

Jacques came back into the hall. He looked excited.

“It’s a party of strolling players,” he told me. “They’re asking for a night’s shelter and they’ll do a play for us in return for their supper.”

I understood Jacques’ excitement and I shared it.

“But of course,” I cried. “Tell them they are welcome. Bring them in.” Lucas had come down, and I whispered to him what was happening. “They will play for us!” he whispered. “We shall see a real play!”

There were eight of them-three women and five men. They were heavily wrapped up against the weather, and their leader was a middle-aged man, bearded, thick-set and of medium height.

He took off his hat when he saw me and bowed low. He had laughing eyes which almost disappeared when he smiled.

“A merry good day to you,” he said. “Is the master of the house at home ... or perhaps the mistress?”

“I am the mistress of this house,” I replied.

He looked surprised at my youth and accent.

“Then whom have I the honour of addressing?”