Филиппа Карр: Will You Love Me in September

"I understand, Clarissa.”

"I thought you would. But how can I let him know? ...”

"He will understand, I'm sure.”

She was wanting to leave me, to go to him, to tell him what I had said.

I stood up. She was beside me. She flung her arms about me.

"Oh, I do love you, Clarissa," she said.

How happy they were! Sabrina had changed. She seemed to have flung off every one of those inhibitions which had plagued her from childhood. She was in love, and because she was no longer very young she loved with a great intensity. Dickon adored her.

That was obvious. He was a little worried because he was some thirteen years her senior.

"What is age?" I asked. "You are ideal for each other.”

My seemingly delighted attitude at the way things had turned out was a perpetual joy to them. They kept looking at me as though they were grateful and so delighted just because I did not want to marry Dickon.

I would smile brightly to hide the fact that I was brokenhearted. It was no mean feat, and I was rather proud of myself. It was only when I was alone in my bedroom that I allowed the mask to drop and sometimes wept a little in the darkness of the night.

The end of a dream!

There was nothing left of it now. I must settle down, and perhaps when Zipporah's children began to arrive I should find some solace in them.

Sabrina and Dickon were married quietly at the village church, and then left with him for the north.

It was one night in the July of that year when Charles Edward Stuart landed in one of the small Western Islands of Scotland with only seven men and a few hundred muskets and broadswords, and the money lent to him by the King of France. He had come to wrest the crown from our King George the Second and claim it for himself. It was like a pattern to me. It was when the Prince's father had come that Dickon had been involved and sent to Virginia. Now Dickon was back, and here was the son come to fight for what he considered to be his right.

Everyone was talking about the new insurrection. We had had thirty peaceful years, with little mention of Jacobites, but this seemed a serious threat.

Proclamations were issued. Rewards were offered for the capture of Charles Edward Stuart. In Scotland they called him Bonnie Prince Charlie because he was said to be young and handsome.

When visitors came to Clavering they talked of nothing but the Jacobites.

"It seems," said one of our guests, "that we might be getting the Stuarts back.”

"Feckless family!" said another. "We're better off with German George.”

People were not taking the rising very seriously, however. Many of them remembered what they called "the Fifteen," referring to the year 1715, when this Prince's father had come to Scotland in the hope of gaining the throne. Nothing had come of that.

What were the Prince's Highland supporters, compared with the trained English Army?

There was some consternation when Sir John Cope was beaten at Prestonpans and Charles Edward started to march south and actually reached Derby.

Everyone now knows the outcome of that adventure and how the Duke of Cumberland marched to join the main army and so catch the Prince in a pincer movement. They knew that he could have reached London and that he might have succeeded had he not been persuaded to return to Scotland and fight the decisive battle there.

He was back in the north in December.

I heard from Sabrina. She was in distress. Dickon was a Jacobite at heart, and she knew that she could not stop his joining the Prince. "I reminded him," she wrote, "of what had happened before. He said that a man must fight for what he believed in, and that the throne belonged by rights to the Stuarts.

"Dear Clarissa, he is with them now, and I am desolate and full of fears. I have been so happy since I knew that you no longer cared for him, and now he has gone away. I don't know when I shall hear from him again. I am here in the north, far away from you. If only I could be near you I could bear it better. I play with the idea of leaving and coming to you. But I must be here ... for when he comes back.”

I shared her anxieties. I waited avidly for news. It was April before it came-a lovely spring day, with the birds singing wildly with the joy of greeting summer and the buds bursting open on the trees and shrubs. Spring in the air and fear in my heart.

I heard of the terrible battle of Cullodon and prayed that Dickon might be safe. I wanted him to be happy; I wanted Sabrina to be happy.

The tales of the terrible slaughter shocked me. I shuddered at the name of the "Butcher”

Cumberland. "No quarter," he had said. "None shall be spared. We will finish the rebels once and for all.”

There was no news from Sabrina.

I prayed that he might be returned to her now. She knew I was anxious. Surely she would let me know.

No news ... and the days were stretching on. May had come.

"This will be the end of the Jacobites," people said. "This is the final defeat.”

"Cumberland was right to be so harsh," said others. "They have to be shown that these rebellions must stop.”

"No man should treat his fellowmen as Cumberland has treated those who fell into his hands," said others.

Talk of the atrocities was rife. I could not bear to listen.

And still there was no news.

I wrote to Sabrina, "Let me know what is happening. I am frantic with anxiety.”

I waited. Each day I watched. Surely something must have happened to explain Sabrina's silence.

May is the most beautiful of months, I had always thought until this May. I shall never forget it ... the long warm days and the whole of nature rejoicing, and in my heart a feeling of dread that was almost a premonition.

It was the middle of the month and I was in the deepest despair when she came.

She walked into the house as though she were in a dream. In fact, I thought / was dreaming when I saw her. So often had I pictured her coming home to me ... that it seemed like part of another dream.

"Sabrina," I whispered.

I saw her face then, pale and tragic, and I knew.

She ran to me and my arms were about her, holding her fast, rejoicing in the midst of my fears because she had come home to me.

We clung together without speaking for some minutes; then I drew away and said, "Dickon ... Is he ... ?”

She nodded. "He died ... from his wounds at Cullodon.”

"Oh ... Sabrina ...”

She could not speak. She could only cling to me as though begging for comfort. I said to her, "Do you remember when we did our lessons together? There was one thing we discussed, and I often think of it. It was what one of the Roman poets-Terence, I think-wrote. It was: 'The life of man is as when you play with dice; if that which you chiefly want to throw does not fall, you must by skill make use of what has fallen by chance.' Everything depends on the drop of the dice, but once it has fallen, there can be no going back. We must do the best we can with what is left to us.”

She nodded; and in comforting her, I could comfort myself.

Later we talked. All through the day and night we talked. "He would go, Clarissa.

I tried to stop him. I reminded him of what had happened before. But he had to go.

He was a Jacobite, and nothing could make him forget that.”

I thought, He forgot it once when he helped me to escape. And a great pride filled my heart at that moment.

"I begged him," she went on. "I pleaded with him, but he could not stop himself.

He had to go. I understood at last. He was so certain that Charles Edward would succeed.

And he did at first, but it was hopeless against the English armies. And Cumberland was determined that there should not be another Jacobite rebellion. The slaughter ... oh, Clarissa, I could not describe it.”