Daughters of England Page 8

  “He’s a madman,” said Maggie when he had gone. “Stop thinking of that flour, Martha, we’ve seen the end of him.”

  I did not believe that. He had made a deep impression on me. There was an aura of saintliness about him, of absolute selflessness. It was sincerity. He seemed to have no thought for his own safety. I was aware that he believed that God would spare him to do the work he had chosen. His faith was absolute.

  I was right. The next day he returned with the flour. He stayed and talked with us for a while, then he said a short prayer as before.

  His visit had a marked effect on me. I felt different. I was certain that we should pass out of this, that in spite of our sorrow I should have, as he said, the fortitude to lift myself out of my melancholy and be able to face whatever lay in front of me.

  With the coming of the cold weather the plague gradually abated. What a relief it was to see no more red crosses on the doors of the houses, no longer to hear the pest carts roaming the streets at night.

  Those who had fled the capital were now returning. There were stalls in the streets, the shops were beginning to open, and the theaters followed. Life was rapidly returning to normal.

  I was on the spot and an actress of some experience, and one or two parts came my way. It was the best thing that could happen. My work absorbed me and helped to subdue my unhappiness at the loss of Kitty.

  We were trying hard to accept the fact that she had gone. Rupert Lawson was a help to us all at that time. He continued to visit us, and Martha, who would be grateful to him for the rest of her life because of the flour he had given her during our great need, liked to give him a good meal.

  “What we should have done without him, I do not know,” she declared. “There was I, down to my last bag of flour, and no end in sight. I reckon he saved us from starvation, that I do. And I don’t think he knows what a good meal is at that place of his. Well, I’ll show him.”

  I was sure she was right, but Rupert was not much concerned with food, nor the domestic comforts of any kind. He had a room in a kind of lodging-house and was looked after by a landlady.

  I heard that one or two others of his calling had acted as he had done during those months of the plague, visiting those who were dying, and bringing comfort to them. People said that it was a miracle, for not one of these men, and there were several of them, had been smitten by the disease, in spite of the risks they had taken. And considering how virulent the sickness was, and how it could be caught merely through speaking with one who was afflicted, as must have been the case with Kitty, it did indeed seem miraculous.

  Time was passing. A new year had come, and then the winter was passing into spring. When I walked through the streets it seemed that the plague might never have visited us, bringing the desolation it had. I could almost delude myself into thinking that when I returned to the house Kitty would be waiting for me.

  I was seventeen years old, and very different from the child who had run away from home that night. I had known deep sorrow since then, perhaps the greatest sorrow anyone can know—suddenly to lose a loved one, one who was at that time the most important person in my life. So much had happened to me since then. I had achieved a little success. Nothing spectacular, of course, but I could say that I had taken a few steps up the ladder to a career in the theater.

  Since the plague had subsided, I had been employed almost regularly. I suppose some actresses had left London, some may have been victims of the sickness; perhaps it was because there were not many to choose from that I was given this chance. I had played in Beaumont and Fletcher’s Scornful Lady and Dryden’s Indian Emperor with some success. My acting absorbed me, and Maggie, Martha and Rose enthusiastically followed what I did, and came to the theater to see me act. What a boon the theater was to us all during that difficult time of mourning. It helped the others no less than me. They listened to me rehearsing my parts. Often I would think: If only Kitty were here, how delighted she would be.

  Moreover, I was earning money—not a great deal, but enough to give me a feeling of independence, which meant a great deal to me. Oh, if only Kitty were here! I thought that a hundred times a day.

  Summer had come. We were very apprehensive, fearful that the plague might come again. When the sun was hot we were particularly fearful. It was during, such weather in the previous year that we had become aware of the scourge which had taken possession of London.

  People were alert. If anyone was mildly ill, that person was regarded with suspicion and contact would be avoided.

  But the summer was passing and there was no sign of the trouble. July was hot and sultry. Fear grew. But it would not be long before the cold winds started to blow, and we had come through so far.

  One day, when I was leaving the theater, a man came to me. He bowed deeply, lifting his hat from the luxuriant light brown curls of his wig as he did so.

  “Mistress Standish,” he said. “Do you remember me?”

  I looked at him and I vividly recalled that night he had wanted to escort me home and Kitty had emerged suddenly to accompany us.

  He said: “Congratulations, Mistress Standish. No longer the little waif with her herring basket, but an actress of fame on the stage of the King’s Theatre. Well, it had to be, had it not, for such a talent could not remain hidden for long.”

  I laughed. “You are Lord Rosslyn,” I said.

  “I am honored that you remember me. I must speak to you. I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance. Did you hear my cheers at the end? They were all for you. In fact, I scarcely noticed the rest of the cast.”

  “This,” I said, “is blatant flattery.”

  He lifted his shoulders and looked at me a trifle whimsically.

  “Much has happened since we last met,” he said. “It would please me greatly if we might talk together. Would you come to one of these new coffee houses? We could sit and talk with ease. What say you? There is one at Covent Garden right here. I was at Tom’s in Change Alley a little while ago. I am mightily impressed with these places. I think they will become very popular. Well, what say you to the Covent Garden?”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  I had not yet visited one of the coffee houses. When the first one, the Rainbow, was opened in Fleet Street, there was a great deal of speculation about it. People wanted to visit it and that accounted for its initial success, but when that had faded and Dick’s in the City was opened and others followed, it seemed as though they had come to stay and were popular with the people of London, and almost immediately they were supplying customers with something stronger than the coffee which had been the first intention.

  When we were seated in the Covent Garden Coffee House, my companion urged me to take a little wine. But I wanted to try the coffee. I reminded him that this was a coffee house and therefore it was appropriate to drink that beverage.

  He drank the coffee with me. I found it good, and I was aware of a very special stimulation in his company.

  He was an extremely attractive man, years older than I. He must have been in his mid-thirties, which would make him twice my age. I thought he was more interesting than any man I had ever met. There was an air of the “man of the world” about him which appealed to my youthful innocence. Perhaps I was flattered that such a distinguished man should concern himself with me.

  He leaned towards me and said: “You have grown up, Mistress Standish, since that day I took you home after you gave that wonderful performance at the house of your friends.”

  “He was my father’s employer. My father was agent for Sir Henry Willerton’s estates.”

  “I know. In fact, Mistress Standish, I know a great deal about you. So you came to London.”

  “Yes, Kitty thought I might do something in the theater.” I could not say her name without emotion. He saw this and stretched out his hand and took mine. He looked into my face as he held it, and I tried to hold back the tears which came into my eyes.

  “It was such a tragedy,” he s
aid. “I was desolate when I heard. She was so young, so vital…and you were with her, were you?”

  I told him how she had died and how the Reverend Rupert Lawson had assisted us by bringing food, of which we were in desperate need.

  “A good man,” he said. “Many have suffered, I fear.”

  “You were not in London?”

  “No. I was in the country. There were one or two cases there. It was not a time to come to the capital if one could avoid it. My poor Mistress Standish. It was very, very sad indeed for you.”

  “As for so many.”

  “A punishment on the unrighteous, as the Puritans tell us. Alas, it was not they who suffered. Most of them had their country houses to which they could return, while those who could not get away suffered for the sins of the unrighteous, which would seem a little unfair—if one believed in this theory, which I do not.”

  “Nor I,” I said.

  He was smiling a little ruefully.

  “Enough of this sadness. ’Tis a time for rejoicing, for we have met after all this time. I have thought of you often. The little waif with her herring basket. She touched me mightily, and then when I heard that Mistress Standish was playing at Drury Lane…well, nothing would hold me back, and then I gathered together my courage and spoke to her.”

  “Did it need so much courage?”

  “A great deal, for if you had refused to talk to me I should have been desolate.”

  “I cannot see why I should refuse. I shall always remember how kindly you walked home with me.”

  “With you and Mistress Kitty. She took great care of you, did dear Kitty. But enough, I do not want to make you sad again. She would be pleased to see your success in your profession. You are happy about that. So let us forget all sadness. That is the best way. Tell me, where do you live? Tell me all about yourself.”

  “Kitty took me in to her home with Maggie Mead. We lived there and I live there still.”

  “I have heard of her. A lady of great character.”

  “That would describe her well.”

  “And she has taken on the role of guardian angel to the young lady recently come to the wicked city.”

  I laughed. “That could be so. And what of you, my lord?”

  “My name is Adair. Jack Adair. Could I prevail upon you to call me Jack?”

  “It seems a little…”

  He smiled. “Familiar?”

  “Well, perhaps.”

  “Shall I tell you that nothing would please me more than such familiarity? I shall call you Sarah. May I? And I hope you will forget our brief acquaintance and call me Jack. After all, we did meet at Willerton and it is not the duration of a friendship which is so important, but its depth. I am going to be very bold and suggest that this meeting tonight is going to be the beginning of many for us. What would you say to that?”

  “What could I say until I know what follows?”

  “How wise. How cautious. The more I know you, the more you delight me.”

  We talked in this light bantering way until suddenly I realized that the time was passing and Maggie would be wondering where I was.

  I said I must go. He looked a little disappointed but he did not seek to detain me and said instead he would walk home with me.

  As we walked the short distance to Maggie’s house, I realized that I had not felt so happy since Kitty died. I found this man’s company exhilarating and I was delighted because of his insistence that we must meet again.

  When I said goodbye to him he once more took my hand and held it for a few seconds before he raised it to his lips.

  “It has been so wonderful to find you,” he said. Then he smiled and added: “Rest assured that, having done so, I shall not let you elude me again.”

  I laughed, pretending to believe that it was merely gallant words, not to be taken too seriously.

  But how I hoped this was not so.

  I was eager to tell Maggie of my meeting with this gentleman, but as soon as I entered I knew that something had happened. Before I saw Maggie, Martha came to me. She had that eager and excited look people have when they have some surprising news. Whether good or bad, it makes no difference. They know something you do not and they cannot wait to tell you.

  “Martha,” I began, “is Mistress Maggie all right?”

  She lowered her voice. “She’s in a bit of a state, Miss Sarah. It’s that nephew of hers.”

  Nephew? I remembered vaguely that Maggie’s sister lived in the country somewhere and she had a son. This would be the nephew.

  “What…?” I began.

  “He’s here.” She pointed towards the parlor door which was shut.

  “With Mistress Maggie?”

  “Shut in together. It’s talk, talk. He’s come all the way from Dorsetshire. What it means, only the Lord knows.”

  “I am sure Mistress Maggie will know as well by now, Martha,” I said. “Has she said anything to you?”

  “No. He’s had a bit to eat and he’s to stay the night. I’ll have to make him up a bed in the parlor. What I do know is that Mistress Maggie is all in a daze, which is not like her.”

  “She’s in the parlor, is she?”

  “Yes, with him.”

  “I’ll go and see what is wrong.”

  I knocked at the door of the parlor and was bidden to enter.

  Maggie was seated on a chair and beside her sat a man who must have been in his twenties, not unlike Maggie in appearance.

  “Oh, Sarah,” she said, and I fancied it was with relief. Had she been uneasy because I was late? No, I realized this crisis had driven everything else from her mind.

  “Come along in, Sarah. This is my nephew, Master Abel Bag-ley.” She turned to the young man. “Mistress Standish is a great friend of mine. She lives here.”

  The young man stood up and bowed.

  “Sit down, Sarah,” said Maggie. “I must tell you what has happened. My sister Rachel is very ill…not expected to live. She is eager to see me. It is years since we have seen each other. Not since I first came to London. But now there is little time left to her she is most anxious that we should be together.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Abel wants me to go back with him to Dorset.”

  “That is a very long way.”

  “It is so indeed, but Abel has made the journey. I shall go back with him.”

  “When do you suggest you go?”

  “Abel will go back tomorrow. I shall go with him.”

  “But how?”

  “By stage wagon.”

  I looked at her in horror. I had heard of the stage wagons. It was not very long ago that they had come into being. I guessed the journey to Dorset would take a week or more and, of course, it would be far from comfortable. But there was an air of determination about Maggie. I knew her well and I knew that she had made up her mind.

  She came to me in my room that night. Neither of us could sleep. The effect of Maggie’s news had put from my mind temporarily the excitement of the meeting with Lord Rosslyn.

  She wanted to tell me what was on her mind, so she sat on the bed and we talked. She told me more about her life in that Puritan household where she had been brought up. Her sister Rachel had been her parents’ favorite.

  “Rachel was made in their pattern,” she said. “I never was. She was a good little Puritan. I was a rebel. And she married Jacob Bagley, another such as our father. A righteous man, my father called him, which meant that he hardly ever smiled and thought it was a sin to be happy. I did not know how Rachel could have married him, but she did and with our parents’ blessing, so she was proclaimed a good and dutiful daughter. I could not endure it. I left and came to London. I wanted so much to be an actress, but there was no opportunity in those days. That was when Kitty and I became friends. When I married Tom Mead I went back to see my family. It was not very successful. I knew that I could never be as they were. Rachel and I were quite different. Rachel tried to be friends but it was not easy. I could not endu
re that way of life. I left in a temper and I did not hear any more of her after that…until now. She is asking for me, Sarah. She is dying. I cannot refuse to go.”

  “But it is such a long way, Maggie. It is a very trying journey by stage wagon.”

  “How otherwise should I go? I should never forgive myself if I did not give her her dying wish. I know how she is. Abel tells me she has this on her mind. We parted on ill terms. Mind you, she will have convinced herself that the fault was mine, but on the other hand, does it not say somewhere in the Bible that one should not let the sun go down on one’s anger? Love one another, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive others? And although I am the unrighteous one—already in the angels’ black books for my desire to appear upon the stage—there is just the possibility that someone up there may have a distorted way of passing judgment…and her place in Heaven may be in jeopardy.”

  I could not help smiling. Maggie always made me smile.

  “As for me,” she went on, “well, she is my sister. She was all right when we were very young, before she was caught up with Jacob Bagley and learned to see sin everywhere she looked. Mind you, she had had a fairly good apprenticeship with our parents and it suited her nature better than mine—it’s the truth, Sarah. But I could not be at peace with myself if I did not do all I could to bring us together. We are sisters. There is a bond between us which nothing can change…the same flesh and blood. Do you understand, or am I ranting on?”

  “I do understand, Maggie, and I see that you will not be happy if you do not go. But come back soon.”

  “You can be sure of that,” she said.

  The next day she left on the stage wagon for Dorset.

  I had not mentioned my meeting with Lord Rosslyn. I had thought of it on the previous evening but Maggie was, of course, too immersed in her own problem to want to listen to a little light gossip. So I had refrained from mentioning it.

  I thought much later of what a big part chance plays in our lives.

  But for the arrival of Abel Bagley, my life might have turned out quite differently from the way it did.

  My relationship with Jack Adair—as I thought of him now—progressed rapidly. I knew that he was a most impatient man and when he had made up his mind he wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly.