Филиппа Карр - Daughters of England

Sometimes I wondered if my father regretted his rash actions, for he was growing impatient.

"It is very probable that you will never see Kirkwell Carew again," he said. "It would be unsafe for him to return. Trouble could break out at any time, and then you would see prompt action taken against those who have shown themselves to be the King's enemies."

I knew that he was right, but this separation from Kirkwell was heartbreaking. I could have borne it better if I had known what was happening to him.

I wondered if he would try to get a message through to me.

"He would be rash to try that," my father pointed out. "If the letter went astray and passed into certain hands, you would be marked as the friend of a traitor."

"He was no traitor."

"Not to his country, perhaps, but he would be considered so to James. No, he would never involve you, for that is what it could mean."

Lady Rosslyn's attitude towards me had changed since Luke had saved her life during the fire.

Messages from her came to me by way of Margaret Galloway. I was invited to visit Lady Rosslyn, which I did quite often and we were becoming good friends. Although her voice had not fully returned and speaking was very difficult for her, she could hear well enough and understood perfectly, and we devised a means of communication by signs from her hands, which had not been impaired since her seizure.

I used to tell her about London life and the theater, which seemed to interest her.

Two years passed in this way. It was odd, for the days seemed endless, one very much like another, and the time seemed to slip by.

The King was having trouble with the bishops. There was talk of William of Orange having his eye on the throne. He was married to James's daughter Mary, who was heir to the throne until James had a son; and William was also in line to the throne, his mother having been the eldest daughter of Charles I. Intrigue was rife and my father told me that many powerful men were making their way to The Hague and were showing quite clearly their support for William, because they realized that there would never be harmony in the country while James was on the throne.

Francine still flitted in and out of my life. I thought of her as a will-o'-the-wisp. I would not see her for weeks and then suddenly she would seek me out. She would be waiting for me outside the stables or without warning she would come to my room. It was as though she suddenly remembered me and wanted to talk.

She said one day: "Lady Rosslyn likes you now. She used to hate you. And then your brother saved her from the fire and she couldn't hate him any more and, as you were his sister, she couldn't hate you either. She was lying in her bed and the curtains round it were all on fire. Fire rims up the curtain like a little animal and then suddenly it's all red and blue and it makes a crackling noise, as though it's laughing at you because you can't put it out."

She laughed, and I said: "It is not very funny. It would have been terrible if my brother had not been there in time to save her."

"But he was, and he picked her up and walked through the fire with her. It was a beautiful fire. If they hadn't stopped it it would have burned up the house, all of it."

"Let us be thankful that they did stop it," I said. "You've talked of fires before, as though you have a fancy for them."

She looked at me slyly and laughed. Then she was serious.

"They're beautiful. They're red and blue and you can see pictures in them. Your brother walked through it. I wish I'd seen him do that. It was brave of him ... walking through the fire carrying Lady Rosslyn. She would have been dead if he hadn't. The fire would have eaten her all up. It does. I don't like her, so ..."

"So what?" I said.

"So nothing," she said, and, laughing, ran off.

I thought again, as I had done so many times, that she had an unhealthy interest in fires.

And when the tragedy happened I told myself I should have seen it coming, and it should have held no surprise for me.

It happened so suddenly, when I was in the library one day. The library was a large room with its long narrow windows and its high vaulted ceiling similar to most of the big rooms in the house. At the windows hung long red velvet drapes. I was sitting there, browsing through a book and thinking, as I so often did, of Kirk, wondering where he was and whether he was thinking of me, when I was suddenly aware of the door being cautiously pushed open. I turned in astonishment and saw Francine.

She was creeping stealthily into the room and to my horror in her hands she clutched a lighted taper.

I stared at her in astonished silence, and yet, in an instant I knew what she was about to do ... and that she had done the same thing before.

She tiptoed towards the curtains, holding the taper carefully, a beatific smile illuminating her features. It was as though she were about to perform some rite.

I stood up and the book which was on my lap crashed to the floor.

I cried: "Francine! Stop!"

She turned and, as she did so, the taper touched against her dress. I saw the flame catch it and run from the waist to the hem and then all over the top of her skirt.

I shouted something and ran to her, but by this time she was a mass of flames.

Panic seized me and I felt helpless.

I picked up one of the small rugs lying on the floor and tried to wrap it about her. It extinguished some of the flames but was not enough. I tried to beat them out. It seemed minutes before I succeeded. She was lying on the floor. Her hair was almost entirely burned away. I stood for a few seconds, staring at that poor burned figure which had been Francine.

Then I ran out of the room, calling for help.

Francine lived for only two days. It was merciful really, for she was so badly burned as to be almost unrecognizable, and life as she had become would have been intolerable.

She never spoke again and I was not sure whether she knew what had happened to her. That which had so fascinated her and with which she had so daringly played, had killed her.

Poor Margaret Galloway was shattered. She was blaming herself. She was in a dazed state of acute misery and every now and then I would see the tears falling down her cheeks.

Once she talked to me. She said: "You see, I knew. She had done it before."

I said: "In Lady Rosslyn's bedroom?"

She nodded. "I should have done something. I just did not know what. They would have sent her away. Where to? Who would have looked after her? They would never have let her stay here. There was nowhere for her to go. Fire ... it fascinated her. Right from a baby. And there she was ... no mother, no father. I was the only one. I had to keep her here. So ..."

"You cannot be blamed for doing what you thought was best."

"She would have killed Lady Rosslyn ... and then she killed herself."

I tried to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. Poor Margaret, frightened, relying on the favors of her cousin. But I believed Lady Rosslyn was genuinely fond of her; and it was true that she had softened considerably since she had come so close to death before being saved by the bravery of Luke. I think that had had a marked effect on her.

I could not believe that three years had passed since Kirkwell went away. I was no longer a young girl. I was twenty-one years old.

On my twenty-first birthday my father had said to me: "You cannot wait forever. Sebastian is impatient, and so am L"

"This is my life," I said. "I must live it my way."

"I want what is good for you. While King James is on the throne Kirkwell cannot return."

"I think he will."

"If he came back, he would live in perpetual uncertainty. He knows that, and it is something he would never allow you to share. Every rising, every sign of trouble and he would be a suspect."