Saraband for Two Sisters

As Trystan Priory was five miles from the sea, one of the attractions of the castle was its closeness to it, for even within those thick walls one was aware of its murmur, especially when it was rough. In comparison our house seemed very peaceful and, to a girl of seventeen who was longing for adventure, peace could appear dull. Ours was a fine house really though I never realized this until I left it. The old priory had been destroyed when the monasteries were dissolved, and the house had been built on the site with many of the original stones. As it had been constructed in the days of Elizabeth, it was built in the shape of an E out of compliment to the Queen, as so many houses were at that time. It was full of exciting nooks and crannies, and it had its butteries, pantries, and fine old kitchen. The grounds were beautiful. There were rose, pond, kitchen, and herb gardens and some in the Italian style, but mostly English; our mother took a great interest in them as she did about anything in the house because it was the home which sheltered her precious family. This impressed itself on me after visiting Castle Paling, where in spite of Melanie-who was not dissimilar to my mother-one had the impression of something forbidding and menacing.

Bersaba felt it as I did, but it was indicative of our characters that it affected us differently.

The day after our seventeenth birthday I asked Bersaba whether she was pleased we were going to Castle Paling the following week. We were in the schoolroom where we had been left by our governess for what was called “private study.” She shrugged her shoulders, and lowered her eyes and I saw her teeth come out over her lower lip. I knew her habits so well that I understood she was faintly disturbed. But her feelings could be mixed. There was a good deal she hated about Castle Paling but there was one thing she loved. That was our cousin Bastian. “I wonder how long we shall stay?” I went on.

“Not more than a week I expect,” she answered. “You know Mother hates to be away too long for fear Father should return in her absence and she will not be there to welcome him.”

Our father was often away from home for months at a stretch because he was deeply involved with the East India Company, which had been founded by his father-amongst others-and which for a time had prospered. In this year of sixteen hundred and thirty-nine it was less successful than it had been, but to a man like my father that was a challenge. Many people connected with the Company visited us at Trystan Priory, and there always seemed something exhilarating to discuss about it. For instance at this time there was a great deal of talk about the new factory they were planning to build on the banks of the Hooghly River in India.

“Fennimore will be primed to send a message if the ship is sighted,” I reminded her.

“Oh, yes, but she likes to be here.”

“I shall take my new muff,” I announced.

“A muff in summer! You are crazy,” said Bersaba.

I was crestfallen. My muff had been a birthday present. I had wanted it because I had heard they were now worn a great deal by the ladies of King Charles’ court, which meant that they were the height of fashion.

“Besides,” went on Bersaba, “where would you wear a muff at Castle Paling? I shall take my sketchbook,” she added.

Bersaba had drawn a piece of paper toward her and was sketching on it. She was very good and could, in a few lines, create an impression. I could almost feel that I was at Castle Paling looking out from one of the turret windows. She started to sketch Grandfather Casvellyn. What a terrifying mart he must have been when he could walk about! Now there was something pathetic about him because he looked so frighteningly fierce while at the same time he was so crippled that he could not walk and had to spend most of his time lying on a couch or being wheeled about in a chair. He had been thus for many years-for more than twelve years before we were born. It seemed to us that he had been there for always and always would be there. He was like the Flying Dutchman, but instead of sailing the seas he had been doomed to sit in his chair in expiation of some terrible sin. ‘Well,” I said slyly, “it will be good to see our cousins.”

Bersaba went on sketching and I knew she was thinking of Bastian. He was twenty-three years old and resembled Aunt Melanie; kind and gentle, he had never taken up the patronizing attitude which older people give to the young. Nor did our brother Fennimore for that matter. Our mother would not have allowed it in our house, but Castle Paling was different. I think that at some time Bastian must have shown some preference for Bersaba which won her immediate devotion, for she reacted quickly to any form of appreciation.