Филиппа Карр - Saraband for Two Sisters

Carlotta was watching me as a cat watches a mouse, teasing me in the same way, patting me with her paw, letting me run a little way, then clawing me back. I comforted myself with the thought that she didn’t know how wounded I was. I was sure she thought I had had a little-girl fondness for Bastian and that I, childish like Angelet, was just a little hurt because he no longer paid me the same attention.

At supper that night Fennimore sat at the head of the table and Carlotta turned her languorous eyes on him. Fennimore was made in the image of his father, and as Carlotta was engaged to marry his cousin Bastian, it would not occur to Fennimore to be aware of her fascination. Like my parents my brother created a sense of security and made even me think that whatever happened, this would always be my home and my parents would shelter and protect me. Carlotta talked of her coming marriage and what it would mean to her.

“I hesitate,” she said. “I am not sure that I would wish to be buried in the country. »

“You’ll get used to it,” said Fennimore easily. “Bastian will be involved with the estates and that can be a full-time job I assure you.”

“When we were in Madrid we went to Court often. I am already beginning to find it somewhat dull here.”

“Then,” said Angelet logically, “you should not marry Bastian unless you have other interests.”

Angelet looked slyly at me and I thought, “Oh, no, sister, not now!”

“What interests are there in the country?”

“There’s riding for one thing. You can ride far more in the country than in the town. There are exciting things ... like the May revels and Christmas when we bring in the holly and the ivy. We do have the occasional ball.”

“They are nothing like the Court balls, I do assure you,” said Carlotta coldly. “There are exciting things though,” insisted Angelet, ‘like going to see the witch of the woods.”

“Who’s that?”

‘They hanged her some time ago,” said Angelet soberly, “but there’ll be another.

There are always witches.”

“What do you know of them?” Carlotta was animated.

“That they do all sorts of interesting things, don’t they, Bersaba? »

“They sell their souls to Satan in return for special powers on earth which enable them to get what they want.”

“It’s strange,” said Fennimore, “that witches so often seem to be ugly old women.

If they could have what they want you’d think they’d be beautiful.”

“Perhaps there are some beautiful ones,” said Carlotta.

I thought exultantly, “She is-I am sure she is.”

“My grandmother was said to be a witch and I never saw a more beautiful woman,” she went on.

“I wonder,” I said slowly, “if witchcraft powers are passed down through families?” Carlotta looked steadily at me. “I think that could be very likely,” she replied, and I knew that she wanted me to think that she had special powers, powers to get what she wanted, attract people to her for instance, take them away from those whom they loved by making herself irresistible.

Fennimore-how typical of him-evidently considered the subject unsuitable for his young sisters and determinedly and deliberately changed it. I didn’t listen to what was said. I was excited and felt better than I had since I had heard the news.

Two days after Carlotta and Senara had come to Trystan Priory Bastian rode over. I saw him from one of the Castle windows and I did not know what to do. Part of me wanted to run to our room and shut myself in, but it was Angelet’s room too and how could I shut her out? Another part of me wanted to go down to him to rage at him, to abuse him, to tell him that I hated him.

Neither of these actions could I take and there is another trait in my character which I don’t quite know whether I should be grateful for or deplore. When something good or bad happens I seem to stand outside the event, to look in and watch myself and others, so that whatever my feelings I can always curb them and ask myself what action will bring most advantage to me. Angelet never stops to think; she does what comes naturally. If she is angry her anger bursts forth; so does her joy. I sometimes think it would be easier for me if I were like that. As at this time. If I did what was natural, either go to my room and burst into floods of tears or go down and abuse Bastian, people would know what I was feeling. But being myself, even in my most abject misery and hatred, and feeling everything so much more intensely than Angelet ever could, I must be outwardly calm and say, “What is the best thing for me to do?” And by best I always meant advantageous to myself.

So now I pondered and I decided that I would go away from the house, so that if he looked for me he would be unable to find me. That would give me time to ponder. I quickly changed into my riding habit, went down to the stables, saddled my mare, and rode out. As the wind brushed my face and caught at the hair under my riding hat I could smell the dampness of the earth, for it had been raining in the night.

I felt the tears coming to my eyes and I knew that if I could have cried I should have felt relieved to some extent. But I would not cry. Instead I nursed my anger. I thought of the insult to my pride and I knew that I had loved Bastian because he had noticed me more and liked me better than my sister and that it was my pride which had made me love him; now he had wounded that pride he had taken away my reason for loving him and I hated him. I wanted to hurt him as he had hurt me.

I heard a small voice within me saying, “You never loved Bastian. You loved only yourself.”

And I knew it was true and I wished that I were like Angelet, who never prohed her own secret mind as I did.

I went down the old pack horse track where the flowers on the blackberry bushes were out in abundance, and where we came with our dishes at the end of summer and gathered them so that they could make preserves in the stillroom. I started to gallop past the fields of deep green wheat and I came to the woods-the woods where I had lain with Bastian when he visited us at Trystan Priory. The foxgloves were flowering there. Angelet and I once gathered them and took them into the house and old Sarah who worked in the kitchens said they were poison flowers and witches knew how to brew a potion from them to make you sleep forever.

I would like to make Carlotta sleep forever.

I was wrong to have come to the woods where there were too many memories. I thought of the last time we had been here together. It was six months ago-in January and the trees were bare-lacy branches seen against a gray sky. How beautiful they had been; more beautiful, I had said to Bastian, than they were in summer. “I’d rather have the leaves to shelter us,” he had said. “It’s dangerous here.”

“Nonsense,” I had replied. “Who’d come to the woods in winter?”

«We did.”

It was cold, I remember-the wind was chill-but I said to him, “While our love is warm what matters it?”

And we laughed and were happy and he said, “This time next winter we shall announce our betrothal.” And it was an enchanted afternoon.

When we rode back I pointed out the points of yellow in the jasmine which climbed over one of the cottages we passed.

“Promise of spring,” said Bastian. It seemed significant. The future was full of promise for us.

Why did I want to come here to revive memories? Better to have stayed in the house. Then I saw a man riding toward me and I felt a sudden quiver of alarm because I was doing what was forbidden-riding out alone. I spurred up my horse and, turning off the road, broke into a canter across the meadow. My alarm intensified, for the man who had been on the road was coming across the meadow in my direction. “There is nothing to fear,” I admonished myself. ‘Why should he not come this way?” I seemed to hear my mother’s voice. “I never want you girls to go out alone. It is all right if Fennimore or Bastian is with you. But always make sure that there are two grooms at least.”