The Song of the Siren

As the weeks passed into months I became more and more absorbed by it, and when I was aware of the life within me I thought of little else but the time when my child should be born.

In September, four months after my child’s conception, news was brought to us that King James had died at St. Germain-en-Laye. There was a good deal of talk then and I remember Gregory’s saying that this would not be an end of the Jacobite movement.

James had a son who would be considered the rightful heir.

“Poor James,” said Harriet, “what a sad life he had! His own daughters to turn against him. They say he felt it deeply.”

“He did not want to return to England and to his throne,” said Benjie. “To become a Jesuit as he did meant that he had finished with the world.”

I wondered what effect his death would have on Hessenfield, and I guessed that his efforts would not cease. He had a new pretender to replace the old one, and I wondered then if he would ever come to England and what his feelings would be if he knew I had borne him a child.

James was buried with honours and his body placed in the monasteries of the Benedictines in Paris and his heart sent to the nunnery at Chaillot. Most significant of all Louis the Fourteenth, the French King, had caused the young Prince to be declared King of England, Scotland and Ireland as James the Third.

There was much talk about this and as there were rumours that the health of our King William was not very good a certain speculation was growing up everywhere. Even the servants talked of it and, I believed, took sides.

To show his disapproval William recalled his ambassador from the French Court and ordered the French ambassador to return to France.

The next we heard was that England had entered into an alliance against France. This was called the Grand Alliance; it looked as though war might be imminent. This was not concerned with bringing back James but the Spanish Succession and the threat of war was disturbing, but through it all I remained wrapped up in the thoughts of my child.

At Christmas my mother and Leigh came to Eyot Abbass with Damaris.

My mother was very eager to hear how I was and she had brought garments and advice about the baby. She was determined, she said, to stay until my child was born and nothing was going to shift her. She said this almost defiantly, thinking of Harriet, I was sure, which was absurd really for Harriet had no desire to usurp her position as a mother. My mother would never understand Harriet. This ridiculous rivalry had only grown through me, I believed. Before my birth she must have felt much the same towards her as I did since she had gone to her for advice.

We had the usual Christmas festivities. I was getting large at that time, having only two months to go.

And on a bleak February day my child was born.

It was a strong healthy girl.

As I held my child in my arms I marvelled that out of that encounter, which had been so closely concerned with death, life should have come. A new life.

“What shall you call her?” asked my mother gloating over the child.

“I have decided to call her Clarissa,” I said.

DAMARIS

The Cellar of Good Mrs. Brown

I suppose all my life I have been overshadowed by Carlotta. She is seven years older than I, which gives her a certain advantage, but age has nothing to do with it. Carlotta is herself, and as such the most fascinating person I have ever met.

People turn to look at her when she comes into a room. It is as though the desire to do so is irresistible. Nobody could understand it better than I because I feel this deeply and always have. She is of course startlingly beautiful with that dark curling hair and those deep blue eyes; if one is the sister of such a creature one is immediately dubbed plain merely by comparison. I don’t doubt that if I had not had Carlotta for a sister I should have passed as quite a pleasant-looking, ordinary sort of girl; but there was Carlotta, and I became accustomed to hearing people refer to “the beauty.” I quickly accepted this and I didn’t mind nearly as much as my mother thought I might. I was one of Carlotta’s worshippers too. I loved to watch those deep-set eyes half closed so that the incredibly long dark lashes spread fanlike on her palish skin; then her eyes would open and if she were angry flash with blue fire. Her skin was pale but with a certain glow.