An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (27 page)

There was despair in Elita’s voice now.

“I am safe as long as they can’t find me – safe until I can reach Spain.”

She put her hands to her face.

Lizbeth turned towards the door. Francis was dead. The realisation of what Elita had told her was beginning to seep through the numbness which had been hers from the moment when the blow struck home. Francis was dead – lazy, indolent, easy-going Francis, who had wanted only to lie in the sun and write poems.

He had died because he had let himself be persuaded by his so-called friends into taking a part in their nefarious schemes. Francis was no intriguer, he was not clever enough for that, and yet he had paid the supreme penalty of all traitors. She hoped he had died bravely, but she did not dare to ask the question for fear that she might hear to the contrary.

Her hand was on the latch as Elita spoke again.

“Help me – please help me ”

The words seemed to come croakingly from her throat; and now her hands, claw-like in their intensity, were groping towards Lizbeth.

“Help me,” she was pleading, grovelling, beset by her own fear and terror.

“I cannot help you,” Lizbeth said slowly. “And if I could, I would not do so! You have killed my brother.”

She went from the house without a backward glance. She pulled the door to behind her; and before she had found her horse in the darkness and mounted him, she heard the bolts being shot home and the chains jangling. The light in the hall was extinguished, Elita was alone in the darkness, alone with her own fears and her conscience.

Slowly Lizbeth rode up the drive. It was raining again now, but she did not feel it against her face. She was thinking of Francis, of how close she had been to him in the past, of how she had promised their mother that she would look after him. But she had failed – failed utterly. Francis lay in a traitor’s grave, drawn and quartered.

She thought of him as she had last seen him, slipping away from the Inn at Plymouth, eager to be gone, content that she should take his place aboard the
Sea Hawk,
evading, as he had evaded all his life, the responsibility of doing the things he ought to do and getting someone else to do them for him.

Weak and irresponsible, yet she loved him. Yes, she had loved Francis, Lizbeth thought suddenly, as if he were her son rather than her brother. Always she felt she must protect him, and yet in the hour of his death she had not been there. It was not her fault and yet she blamed herself. Somehow, in some cleverer way than she knew, she should have insisted on his going to sea as their father had commanded. But Francis’ hysteria at the idea had made it impossible for her to insist that he should do so.

He had forced her into helping him to escape, but what he had encountered had been so very much worse than what he had avoided. He would have been afraid to die, Lizbeth knew that. She felt both despondency and despair at the thought of what he must have suffered; and then like a gleam of light in the darkness came the thought that, though he had stood his trial and been condemned, he had not revealed who he was. He had not sent for his father and asked him to use what influence he had to save him. Lizbeth felt a sudden lightening of her misery at the thought. In the end Francis had been brave. He had been brave enough to remain anonymous to save the honour of his name even though by keeping silent he destroyed the only faint hope there might have been of his own salvation.

He had been brave at the end – the footsteps of Lizbeth’s horse seemed to echo the words – he had been brave.

She reached the servants and the pack-horses standing wet and miserable at the end of the drive.

“Only a short distance now,” she said, surprised that her voice could sound quite cheerful.

They seemed to brighten at this and followed her as she rode ahead of them. They came to the gates of Camfield Place and she passed through them, chinking as she did so that in a few minutes now she would be facing her father and her step-mother. They would ask her about Francis and she would have to answer them.

Her brain seemed cloudy so that even her thoughts came incoherently, jumbled and without sense or sequence. Francis was dead. She had to repeat the words to herself to be sure that she believed them. He was dead and yet he had died bravely. She thought of him being hanged with a party of traitors. She had always suspected that Dr. Keen was seditious. Plot after plot had been discovered amongst the Spanish sympathisers in England who wished to rid themselves of a Protestant Queen. It was only surprising that Dr. Keen had not been discovered before.

Lizbeth, remembering his shifty eyes and thin, pale lips which seemed to distort the most simple truth, felt that she had always been suspicious of him. He had been clever, but not clever enough, and he had embroiled Francis in his perfidy.

Lizbeth drew a deep breath. She had reached the door of the house. She had not even been aware of the dear familiarity of the drive and gardens as she came through them. Now, with a sudden throb of her heart she realised that she was home. She looked up at the gables, at the great width of the house stretching out on either side of her. It seemed almost as if the walls embraced her, the place where she was born and where she had lived all her life.

From within there was a sound of dogs barking and footsteps hurrying towards the door. She felt, then a sense of panic – she had returned home, but alone. What was she going to say? And quite suddenly, as if in answer to the frantic searchings of her own mind, she felt as vividly as if it was still happening the noise, thunder and flame of battle around her and the heaviness of Master Gadstone’s head against her breast. She knew then, as she dismounted from her horse and strode forward into the house, what she must say.

The servants were curtseying and smiling at the sight of her, the dogs were jumping up, barking a joyous welcome at her return. Now her father was hurrying towards her across the floor of the Great Chamber, Catherine behind him, her face avid with curiosity.

“My child, I am indeed relieved to see you,” Sir Harry exclaimed.

His great arms encompassed his daughter and he placed heavy smacking kisses on both her cheeks.

“Lizbeth, you are a bad girl to go sneaking off like that,” Catherine scolded.

There was no venom in her voice and Lizbeth knew suddenly she was no longer afraid of her stepmother. The room seemed big and vast. She realised that it was in contrast with the cabin of the
Santa Perpetua.

“
And where is Francis?” her father boomed, his eyes on the door.

The moment had come when she must answer this question.

“Francis is dead,” Lizbeth replied quietly.

“Dead?”

She could feel their eyes resting on her face.

“Yes, dead. He died fighting the Spaniards in our last battle. He was very brave and gallant. You would have been proud of him, Father.

“I
am
proud of him.”

It seemed to Lizbeth as though Sir Harry breathed the words rather than spoke them, and now, as she looked up into his face, she saw an expression there which she did not understand. It was almost as if it were relief – yet how could it be that? She wondered then for one fleeting second whether he knew or whether he suspected that there was some mystery about Francis’ death and then she forced herself to sweep such ideas from her mind. Francis had died fighting the Spaniards. She would swear to it if it must be her dying oath and she would force Rodney, when she saw him, to agree to the same story. He would not refuse her, she was sure of it.

“I am indeed sad to hear about poor Francis,” Catherine was saying, wiping the corner of her eyes with her lace edged kerchief.

“What results from the voyage?” Sir Harry asked.

At this question Lizbeth started – she had almost forgotten the news she had to bring to her father. She told him of the precious cargo lying in the holds of the
Santa Perpetua
and the
Sea Hawk,
of how Rodney was dealing with such matters at Plymouth and that as soon as the registration and sale were completed he would come to Camfield.

Sir Harry cried out with delight at that, asking again and again for details of the plunder, for the description of the pearls which they had captured from the lugger, and the value of the loot they had taken from the Spanish settlement.

She found herself thrilling to the story of their adventures, and to speak of Rodney somehow made the ache in her breast a little easier.

“Rodney said – Rodney commanded – Rodney conquered – Rodney! Rodney! Rodney!”

It was a bitter-sweet joy to say his name, to conjure up those months when she had been able to see and hear him. How, she wondered, could she bear the desolate, empty future without him? But she must not think of that yet, only of the glorious past.

“I love him!” she wanted to tell her father. “I love him. If he wanted me I would cross the world barefooted to be at his side. I would die for him – and God in his Heaven knows that I cannot live without him!”

Instead, she must speak his name calmly and hope that her voice and eyes would not betray her.

Food and wine were brought to Lizbeth while she still sat talking. It was a long time later before she suggested that she should go upstairs and change her clothes which were wet and dirty from the long ride. It was then, as she rose a little stiffly to her feet, that she dared to ask a question that had been trembling on her own lips for a long time.

“Where is Phillida?” she enquired.

For a moment there was silence. Then her father roared out the answer.

“God’s pity that I should be inflicted with such a daughter. There she lies, malingering in bed when she should be on her way to Whitehall. I was angry with you, my girl, I am not pretending I was not, when I heard that you had slipped off with Francis. It threw me into a fine rage, I can tell you now; but I am ready to forgive you with the good news you have brought with you, but Phillida!”

He threw up his arms in an expressive gesture and now Lizbeth looked towards her stepmother.

“What is wrong with her?” she asked. Catherine shrugged her shoulders expressively.

“Nothing that we know of or that any physician can find.” she answered tartly. “She lies and cries and will not obey your father’s wishes.”

“
My
wishes!” roared Sir Harry. “You would have thought that any normal wench would be honoured by such a distinction, but not my daughter. Oh, no! She must lie pulling and whining in a bed of sickness and bring disgrace upon us all.”

“Do tell me what this is all about,” Lizbeth begged.

Her father’s eyes suddenly lit up.

“By my sword! I have the answer. Lizbeth is home. What can be better? She can take Phillida’s place. The letter said “your daughter” and mentioned no name. And Lizbeth is my daughter as surely as Phillida is, and a vast deal better one.” He paused for breath and then added: “This settles everything. Catherine, my dear, see to it. The girl must be fitly clothed”

“And in what way am I to take Phillida’s place?” Lizbeth asked, looking from one to the other.

“My child, we have been honoured by Her Majesty the Queen,” Sir Harry explained at last. “I am invited to send my daughter as Maid of Honour to the Queen’s Grace.”

“As Maid of Honour!” Lizbeth repeated, a little dazed, and not quite certain whether the information, now she had it, was good or bad.

“To Whitehall, Sir Harry added solemnly, “and Phillida weeps and swears she is too ill to undertake the journey.”

“I will go and talk with her,” Lizbeth said, suddenly eager to see her half-sister.

She ran from the Great Chamber and upstairs to Phillida’s room. She burst in, too impatient to knock or announce her arrival. There were two candles flickering by the beside and Phillida lay behind the shrouded curtains hanging from the heavy canopy.

“Phillida, I am home. It is I, Lizbeth.”

With a cry, Phillida lifted her head from the pillows, and then her arms were outstretched towards her half sister and tears were streaming down her white face.

“Oh, darling, what is the matter with you?” Lizbeth asked.

She saw Phillida glance over her shoulder before she spoke, to see if the door was closed. Then she began to whisper,

“Lizbeth, I am thankful you have returned. I have missed you more than I deemed it possible. But now you have come back, you must help me. Please help me, for I cannot go to Whitehall.”

“There is no need, now I am home,” Lizbeth answered.

Phillida sat up suddenly.

“Oh, Lizbeth, I understand! You will take my place. Sweet, kind Lizbeth, I am happy for the first time since you went away.”

“Tell me all about everything, Lizbeth asked. “I am bewildered.!

“Lizbeth, try to understand,” Phillida answered. “How could I go to Whitehall feeling as I do?”

“When I left you had just written to Mister Andrews,” Lizbeth replied. “He did not help you?”

Phillida shook her head sadly. She was as lovely as ever Lizbeth noticed in the candlelight, and she had grown thinner and the corners of her mouth drooped wistfully.

“No, could not help me or was afraid,” Phillida replied, “and so there was nothing I could do but stay here and wait for – your return.

There was a quiver in her voice which made Lizbeth know that in her mind Phillida had substituted another name. Impulsively she took the bull by the horns.

“Rodney has been very successful,” she said. “He has brought back a very valuable cargo. He will be a rich man, Phillida.”

“When is he coming here?”

Phillida was so pale that Lizbeth thought she might faint.

“As soon as everything is settled at Plymouth,” she answered.

Phillida closed her eyes. She was beautiful, Lizbeth thought, beautiful, and Rodney loved her. They would be married, however much Phillida might shrink from the thought of it.

“I will go to London and take your place as Maid of Honour,” she said.

“I do not know which is the worse of the two evils,” Phillida whispered. “I could not bear the thought of waiting on the Queen, but now, perhaps, it is preferable to – to – ”