Saraband for Two Sisters

“And you say ‘poor* in that way implying that he is so because he is married to me. Let me tell you, my dear Angelet, Gervaise is very content with his marriage. There is more to the condition you should know than being polite in company. In some respects-and I fancy you know little about this-I am very satisfactory indeed.” I had a notion of what she was referring to. There was another side to marriage, and it was true I had never experienced it though I knew of its existence. I had seen lovers at home, secret meetings in secret places. Fumbling embraces ... and such like.

I had to admit she had made me apprehensive, for she was right that I had no conception of what that would mean, and she was implying that Sir Gervaise and she were in tune in this rather special way.

She was fully aware that she had aroused my uneasiness and this gave her some pleasure.

“Let me see the ring,” she said.

I held out my hand and she slipped it from my finger.

“It has an engraved T inside, I see.”

“It has been worn by the brides of the eldest son through the ages.”

“Do you care to wear a ring that has been worn by so many before you?”

“It’s a tradition,” I said.

She stared down at the ring in the palm of her hand.

“So it was worn by your predecessor,” she said slowly. “It must have been taken from her finger when she was dead.”

She handed me back the ring with a smile.

“Good night,” she said. And she added: “And good luck.” The implication was that I might need it.

After she had gone I sat in my chair staring at the ring in the palm of my hand. I was picturing a woman in her coffin and Richard leaning over her to take off the ring.

It was an unpleasant image and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. So much so that it haunted my dreams in a vague intangible way and I woke up in the darkness trembling. I think I had thought that I was lying in my coffin and Richard was saying, “All right. We mustn’t forget the ring. I shall need that for the next one.” I found it difficult to sleep after that.

The betrothal had taken place at the beginning of April and then the preparations began, for the wedding was to be in May.

“A month or so before your eighteenth birthday,” said Richard. I couldn’t help remembering my last birthday when we had been out in the fields near Trystan Priory. I mustn’t forget it was Bersaba’s birthday too. It was then that our mother had said, “Next birthday will be different. There will be parties and suchlike.” And she had given us our journals to write and I had started immediately. Bersaba had said she would only write in hers when she had something important to write about. Poor dear Bersaba! She would have something to write about now. What a lot had happened in a short year! There could not be a better example of the truism that life was made up of light and shadow. The tragedy of Bersaba’s sickness; the joy of my marriage. I embroidered a bag for her which I would send for her birthday. It was exquisite and I had put a good deal of work in it. She would love it for that reason because she would know that with my approaching wedding I should have so much to do and yet I still set time aside for her.

The sudden April showers and brief sunshine were giving way to more settled weather.

May was a beautiful month that year-more so than usual, I was sure. The scent of the hawthorn hung heavy in the air and I thought it intoxicating. But perhaps it was my happiness after all. Ana was working hard for me. Carlotta had graciously allowed her to do so. Poor Mab was not very good. She was in a twitter of excitement about the coming marriage and thought herself to be so lucky to have been chosen to come to London with me, where so many exciting things could happen.

We went frequently into the city to buy what was needed. I began to enjoy these jaunts and forgot the unpleasantness I had experienced there. I was never foolish enough to leave whoever I was with and I did avert my eyes when I saw a pillory, but I never saw that grim spectacle again.