Philippa Carr: Saraband for Two Sisters

I cried: ‘I’m longing to begin. I shall start tomorrow. I shall tell about today … our seventeenth birthday.’

‘And what of you, Bersaba?’ asked my mother.

‘I shall write when I have something interesting to write about,’ answered my sister.

My mother nodded. ‘Oh, and by the way, I think it is time we visited your grandfather. We shall leave next week. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare.’

Then she kissed us and left us.

And then next day we received our desks and journals, and I started mine by writing the above.

There was nothing unusual about visiting our grandfather in Castle Paling. We did it several times a year. The Castle is not far from us—a few miles along the coast only, but going there always excited me. Castle Paling was in itself a ghostly place; terrible things had happened there not so very long ago. My mother had hinted at them and she should know, for she had spent her childhood there. Her mother—our grandmother Linnet Casvellyn—had died there in a mysterious fashion (she had, I believed, been murdered, although this had never been admitted) and now our grandfather Colum Casvellyn lived a strange and solitary life in the Seaward Tower, a trial to all around him and especially to himself. My Uncle Connell and Aunt Melanie lived in another part of the castle with their four children; they were a very normal family, but extreme contrasts like the placidity of my Aunt Melanie and the wildness of my grandfather create an atmosphere which is more sinister because of this very contrast.

As Trystan Priory was five miles from the sea, one of the attractions of the castle was its closeness to it, for even within its thick walls one was aware of its murmur, especially when it was rough. In comparison our house seemed very peaceful, and to a girl of seventeen who was longing for adventure peace could appear dull.

Ours was a fine house really, though I never realized this until I left it. The old priory had been destroyed when the monasteries were dissolved and the house had been built on the site with many of the original stones. As it had been constructed in the days of Elizabeth it was built in the shape of an E out of compliment to the Queen, as so many houses were at that time. It was full of exciting nooks and crannies, and it had its butteries, pantries and fine old kitchen. The grounds were beautiful. There were rose, pond, kitchen and herb gardens and some in the Italian style but mostly English; our mother took a great interest in them as she did about anything in the house, because it was the home which sheltered her precious family. This impressed itself on me after visiting Castle Paling, where in spite of Melanie—who was not dissimilar to my mother—one had the impression of something forbidding and menacing.

Bersaba felt it as I did and it was indicative of our characters that it affected us differently.

The day after our seventeenth birthday I asked Bersaba whether she was pleased we were going to Castle Paling the following week. We were in the schoolroom, where we had been left by our governess for what was called ‘private study’.

She shrugged her shoulders and lowered her eyes and I saw her teeth come out over her lower lip. I knew her habits so well that I understood she was faintly disturbed. But her feelings could be mixed. There was a good deal she hated about Castle Paling but there was one thing she loved. That was our cousin Bastian.

‘I wonder how long we shall stay?’ I went on.

‘Not more than a week, I expect,’ she answered. ‘You know Mother hates to be away too long for fear Father should return in her absence and she will not be there to welcome him.’

Our father was often away from home for months at a stretch because he was deeply involved with the East India Company which had been founded by his father—amongst others—and which for a time had prospered. In this year of sixteen hundred and thirty-nine it was less successful than it had been, but to a man like my father that was a challenge. Many people connected with the Company visited us at Trystan Priory and there always seemed something exhilarating to discuss about it. For instance, at this time there was a great deal of talk about the new factory they were planning to build on the banks of the Hooghly River in India.

‘Fennimore will be primed to send a message if the ship is sighted,’ I reminded her.

‘Oh yes, but she likes to be here.’

‘I shall take my new muff,’ I announced.

‘A muff in summer! You are crazy,’ said Bersaba.

I was crestfallen. My muff had been a birthday present. I had wanted it because I had heard they were now worn a great deal by the ladies of King Charles’s court, which meant that they were the height of fashion.

‘Besides,’ went on Bersaba, ‘where would you wear a muff at Castle Paling? I shall take my sketch book,’ she added.

Bersaba had drawn a piece of paper towards her and was sketching on it. She was very good and could, in a few lines, create an impression. There was the sea with the Devil’s Teeth, those terrifying rocks, and I could almost feel that I was at Castle Paling looking out from one of the turret windows.

She started to sketch Grandfather Casvellyn. What a terrifying man he must have been when he could walk about. Now there was something pathetic about him because he looked so frighteningly fierce while at the same time he was so crippled that he could not walk and had to spend most of his time lying on a couch or being wheeled about in a chair. He had been thus for many years—since more than twelve years before we were born. It seemed to us that he had been there for always and always would be there. He was like the Flying Dutchman, but instead of sailing the seas he had been doomed to sit in his chair in expiation of some terrible sin.

‘Well,’ I said slyly, ‘it will be good to see our cousins.’

Bersaba went on sketching and I knew she was thinking of Bastian. He was twenty-three years old and resembled Aunt Melanie; kind and gentle, he had never taken up the patronizing attitude which older people give to the young. Nor did our brother Fennimore, for that matter. Our mother would not have allowed it in our house but Castle Paling was different. I think that at some time Bastian must have shown some preference for Bersaba which won her immediate devotion, for she reacted quickly to any form of appreciation.

There were three girl cousins. Melder, the eldest, was twenty-six and disinclined to marry; she loved housekeeping and coped with Grandfather Casvellyn better than anyone else, partly because she remained impassive when he swore and cursed her and everything round him, and quietly went on with what she had come to do. Then there was Rozen, aged nineteen, and Gwenifer, seventeen.

As Aunt Melanie, my father’s sister, had married my mother’s brother Connell there was a double relationship between us all. It seemed to bind us very closely together, but perhaps that had come about because Aunt Melanie was the homemaking family-conscious type of woman—just as my mother was—and they believed in welding families together.

Bersaba had started to sketch Bastian.

‘He’s not as handsome as that,’ I protested.

She flushed and tore the paper in halves.

I thought to myself: She really loves Bastian. But the next moment I had forgotten it.

A week later we set out for Castle Paling, Bersaba and I, our mother, three grooms and two maidservants. We really did not need servants, for there were plenty at Paling, but the roads were not altogether safe and the servants were a protection. My father had made my mother promise never to ride out without making sure that she was adequately guarded against attack, and although the roads between Trystan Priory and Castle Paling were well known to us she would never go against his wishes.