“I hope you like the red and green combination,” said the younger.
I said I thought it was most effective.
The elder of the two said: “Didn’t we see you in Germany?”
“Oh . . . yes, I believe you did.”
“You’d gone out with your cousin I believe and stayed quite a long time.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Interesting,” said the elder, and I did not much like the gleam in her eye.
It made me more uneasy.
Aunt Caroline worked herself up into a fury that night. Matilda had come in and hurried off early because she was worried about Albert. You had to be careful with one kidney, she kept saying.
I was late back. I had had quite a success with my stall and by the time I had added up the takings and packed away the unsold goods and gone back with Mrs. Greville it was beginning to get late.
Aunt Caroline screamed at me when I came home.
She really looked very wild, her hair in disorder, her face flushed.
She had been knocking on the floor with her stick for the last half an hour. No one had answered. Our maid Ellen was a lazy good-for-nothing, she declared; Matilda was besotted about that man next door; Amelia had gone to some concert; and I, of course, was busy chasing Anthony Greville. No one had spared a thought for her, but that was how it was when you were ill. People were so selfish.
She went on and on and I was afraid for her because the doctor had said that she must not become excited. He had given me some pills which should have a calming effect but when I suggested she take one, she cried: “That’s right, blame it on to me. I’m the one who has to calm down. I have to keep quiet. I mustn’t say a word. You all go gadding off to enjoy yourselves in the grand man hunt. First Matilda—Matty she calls herself now. Matty indeed! She’s gone back to her second childhood. And as for you. You’re brazen you are. I wonder the vicar can’t see through you. Well, you’re not a girl any more, are you? You’re getting a bit worried. You’re going to be left on the shelf if you don’t watch out. But nobody could say you’re not watching out. On the prowl I’d say.”
I cried: “Be quiet, Aunt Caroline. You’re talking nonsense.”
“Nonsense. Nonsense that’s as plain as the nose on your face. Nonsense indeed! Anyone with half an eye can see what you’re after.”
I was goaded beyond endurance and I said: “As a matter of fact Anthony has asked me to marry him.”
I saw her face change, and I knew then that this was what she feared, and suddenly I saw clearly what her life had been. She had not had Matilda’s more simple nature; Matilda had been interested in her invalids and sympathetic toward them: there was no sympathy in Aunt Caroline’s nature. She had been the less attractive of the two sisters. She was the eldest of the family. My father had come in between. She had had to stand aside for him and envy had eaten into her soul. I saw it there on her face—envy of my father for whom sacrifices had had to be made, for Matilda, who had made other people’s ailments her interest and who had now found a new life in her marriage; myself as she thought about to marry. Poor Aunt Caroline, robbed of everything: the education my father had had, the husband Matilda had; and in addition she was an invalid. I felt deeply sorry for her. Envy—that deadliest of the seven sins—had etched those bitter lines about her mouth, had tightened it and set the sneering glitter in her eyes. Poor, poor Aunt Caroline.
I thought: I must look after her. I must try to be patient.
“Aunt Caroline,” I began, “I . . .”
But she was groping for her pills. I took one and put it into her mouth.
I said. “You had better rest now. I am here if you want anything.”
She nodded; and that night she died.
No one could mourn her. Her passing could only be what was aptly and so commonly known as “a happy release.”
“Her condition could only have worsened,” said the doctor.
Aunt Matilda reverted to type and talked endlessly about hearts which were such funny things but were going to get you in the end. I should sleep next door until after the funeral, she said. Mrs. Greville immediately invited me to the vicarage, but I had already accepted Aunt Matilda’s offer. So I slept in the room which had been mine as a very small child before my father had acquired the house next door.
There was that bustling which funerals always meant. Aunt Matilda was in her element. Funerals as the ultimate climax to illness were a matter of great interest to her. Everything must be done in a manner which she considered “right.” Black had to be ordered and made at great speed; as chief mourner Aunt Matilda assumed a great importance. I was next and we should go together; she would lean on my arm and I would have to support her. Tears were necessary on such an occasion and it was very strange, she told me, that some people did not always find it easy to shed them. One must not speak ill of the dead (an important point in funeral etiquette) but Aunt Caroline had been very ill and it was hard to regret her death. If tears should prove difficult, and she knew that I was by no means an easy shedder of them (“You never were,” she confided. “It was something to do with being sent away from home when you were young”) she had heard a peeled onion concealed in the handkerchief was very effective.
I listened to the chattering and I thought how life had changed for her since Mr. Clees had come along, and that she was a much pleasanter person than she had been under the sway of Aunt Caroline and a participator in the perpetual bickering that seemed inevitable.
Marriage had been a blessing for her.
And for me? I believed it would be the same.
The black arrived. Aunt Matilda was not pleased with Amelia’s hat; her own with its jet brooch and dead black satin ribbons was a triumph. There were the wreaths which caused great consternation lest they should arrive too late. Aunt Matilda could not bear the thought of her sister’s being carried to her last resting place without the “Gates of Heaven Ajar” which she and Albert were contributing. In our little drawing room the coffin stood on trestles; there was a funeral smell throughout the house. The blinds were drawn in all rooms and our little maid Ellen had gone home to her mother because she coudn’t face spending the nights alone in the house with the dead.
At last the day arrived. The solemn black-clad top-hatted men walking beside the black velvet caparisoned horses provided mournful solemnity and the necessary pall of gloom had been arranged even to Aunt Matilda’s complete satisfaction.
Then back to the rooms over the shop to partake of funeral meats. Cold ham, Aunt Matilda said, was a necessity. At one funeral she had been given cold chicken, which in her opinion showed a certain levity out of keeping with the occasion.
The evening came.
“You should stay here one more night,” said Aunt Matilda. So I did, and in my little room that night, I thought: I should marry Anthony.
Just as I had almost made up my mind something happened to make me hesitate.
Ellen came back after the funeral looking very thoughtful. She was absentminded and during the second day I asked if there was anything wrong.
“Oh, Miss Helena,” she said, “I don’t know whether or not to tell you.”
“Well, if you think it would help you . . .”
“Oh it’s not me, miss. It’s . . . it’s you.”
“What do you mean, Ellen?”
“It’s you and the vicar, and I don’t believe it and I don’t think I should repeat it . . . but perhaps you ought to know. I’m sure it’s just wicked gossip.”
“Do tell me.”
“Well my mum had it from someone who had been in their shop and she said there was a lot of people there and they were all saying it was shocking and that the vicar ought to be told . . .”
“But what, Ellen?”
“I hardly like to say, miss. They’re saying that when you went away all that time it was because you was in trouble and that you had a baby.”
I stared at her.
“Who said this, Elle
n?”
“It started with them Miss Elkingtons. They said they saw you there . . . and it was clear and you was coming out of some hospital.”
I remembered it all so clearly: the little street; the exultation I had felt because my child would soon be born; four curious monkey-like eyes regarding me intently.
“It’s nonsense, I know, miss. But I thought you ought to know.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I ought to know. You did right to tell me.”
“Well, there’s nothing to it but gossip. I know that, miss. So does anybody who knows you. Them Miss Elkingtons is terrible gossips. My mum says that’s what they’ve got a shop for. Miss, when you get married, you’ll be wanting someone up there and as I know your ways . . .”
I said: “I’ll remember, Ellen.”
I wanted to get to my room and think.
Of course, I said to myself, I can’t marry Anthony. The Elkingtons would always be there to gossip. What a horrible sordid story! I had gone abroad to have a child . . . No, we could not live that down. Like Caesar’s wife, the vicar’s must be beyond reproach.
I told Anthony what Ellen had told me.
He brushed it aside. “My dear, we’d live that down.”
“But it’s true. I was pregnant when they saw me and it was obvious. I did have a child.”
“My dear Helena, that’s in the past.”
“I know and with you I should be building the house on the rock. But it’s not fair to you. A scandal like that could ruin your career. It could prevent your progress.”
“I’d rather have a wife than a bishopric.”
“I might fail you.” I frowned. I remembered the emotions Maximilian had stirred in me during that night in the mist. I remembered the slow turning of the door handle. If the door had opened, what then? I believed that I should have found him irresistible. What if by some miracle he came back. I feared that so strong would be my feelings for him that he would have the power to wreck that house—built on a rock though it might be.
Again I took refuge in prevarication.
“I must think,” I said. “This has changed things in a way.”
He wouldn’t agree, but I insisted.
It was at this time that I decided to write down what had happened to me in order that I might come to some conclusion as to what actually occurred on the Night of the Seventh Moon. But I must confess that when I came to this point I was no nearer to the truth than I had been before.
I put the account away so that I would always have a record of it and as the years passed I could relive that time of my life in detail.
But it was not long after this when I again stepped into that fantastic world and then I made up my mind that I would write down my adventures as they happened so that they would be clear and precise. I wanted the plain truth undistorted by time.
So when I once more arrived in the Lokenwald I started to record my adventures as soon as they began to happen.
The Reality
1870
ONE
With Aunt Caroline dead, life became calmer, giving one greater opportunity for reflection. How peaceful it was! I would hear Ellen singing as she worked. The days were full. I worked regularly at the bookshop which I found very interesting. When I was not working there I was helping with church affairs, but the Elkingtons had spoiled that for me and I was always apprehensive about meeting them. So I gave my attention to the shop and it was there that I encountered Frau Graben.
She came in one day—a comfortable, plump, middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her wispy hair which escaped from under a plain felt hat. She was dressed in a rather dowdy brown-and-gray check traveling coat over a skirt of the same material. I was talking to Amelia and she made straight for us.
She said in a halting English with an accent which made my heart beat faster: “You vill me help. Vot I vant iss . . .”
I immediately spoke to her in German and the effect was miraculous. Her plump face lighted up, her eyes shone and she answered volubly in her own language. In the space of a few minutes she told me that she was visiting England and that she spoke very little English—both of which facts were fairly obvious—and that she wanted a little book which would help her to understand the language.
I took her along to the German section in the foreign department, telling her that I had a phrase book she would find useful and I thought that a dictionary would be of great help.
She made the purchases and thanked me, but seemed loath to go and as we were not busy I was quite happy to talk with her.
She had arrived only a few days ago in England and had come to Oxford because a friend of hers had been educated there. She wanted to see the place of which she had heard so much. Was she enjoying England? I asked. Yes, was the answer, but the language barrier was a difficulty. She felt lonely and she could not tell me how wonderful it was to find someone who could talk to her as I could.
I found myself explaining to her that my mother was Bavarian and that she used to talk to me in her native tongue, and that I had been educated in a Damenstift near Leichenkin.
The joy in her face was expressive. But that was wonderful. She knew the Damenstift well. It was not so far from where she lived. This was better than ever.
After half an hour she left, but the next day she was back again and made a further purchase. Again she stayed to talk.
She looked so wistful when she was about to walk out of the shop that I asked her to tea next day.
She arrived at the expected time and I took her into the little sitting room which seemed so much more gay now that Aunt Caroline was dead. Ellen brought in the tea and some cakes which she had made. They weren’t up to Aunt Caroline’s standards, but neither of us cared for that.
The conversation was exciting, because Frau Graben knew the forest well. She told me that she lived in a small Schloss perched on the mountainside and here she was the Schloss mutter. She was in charge of the household and was the children’s chief nurse. She was indeed the mother. She proudly told me that she was responsible for the management of the Schloss.
The children to whom she referred with affection were Dagobert, Fritzi, and Liesel.
“Whose children are they?” I asked.
“They’re the Count’s.”
I felt dizzy with an excitement which had grown greater ever since I had met Frau Graben.
“Count . . . ?” I reiterated.
“Well,” she said. “He’s the Duke’s nephew and a gay young gentleman he is too. Many people thought he was mixed up in his father’s plotting. But now Count Ludwig has gone there’s still my lord Count and no one can be sure what he might be up to.”
“What of the Countess?”
“She’s a suitable wife for him and they have one son.”
“I thought you said there were three children?”
“I’m not actually in the Count’s household. I have nothing to do with that son.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You know how it is . . . But perhaps you don’t. My lord was always after the women; Ludwig was the same. It runs in the family. They used to say that Ludwig was the father of a good many more than he owned to. And, my goodness, you can see the family features in the little ones playing about in the villages.”
“And these three?”
“He admits to them. Special favorites their mothers must have been. And the Count likes any connected with him to be well looked after. He’s fond of them in his way and comes to see them now and then. He takes an interest in their future. And as our own state of Saxe-Coburg was allied with the royal family of England he wants them all taught English.”
“This Count,” I said, “what is he like?”
“He’s like all the family—tall and good-looking, and fond of his own way. No woman’s safe once he’s taken a fancy to her. Yes, he’s just like all the family. I was nurse to them so I know and I reckon that nursery was as difficult to control as a whole dukedom. The mischief those boys got into! I had my hands full, I did. And
in their mid-teens it was the women they were after. But I will say this. He looked after the children. It’s my belief that many a girl puts her trouble down to his door. He’s careless. He’ll see she’s all right. He likes his fun, he says, and doesn’t mind paying for it. The children think he’s wonderful. Young Dagobert will grow up just like him. I’m not so sure of Fritzi. There’s something different about Fritzi. I worry about him. He needs a mother and of course that’s just what he hasn’t got.”
“Where is his mother?”
“She’s dead, I daresay. But the mothers wouldn’t come to the Schloss in any case. Once he’s done with a woman he’s done with her. But I will say he takes an interest in the children. He didn’t like the way some of the family couldn’t speak English with the Queen’s party when she came visiting us from England after her husband’s death. ‘I want the children to learn English,’ he said. So now of course we’ll have a new teacher for them. ‘An English teacher,’ he said. He’s not going to have them talking with a German accent.”
“And the Count—does he speak English?”
“He’s been educated here . . . in this place. He speaks English like you do. That’s how the children will have to.”
“They’ll have to have an English teacher.”
“Yes, that’s what he aims at.”
She went on to tell me about the children. Dagobert was the eldest. He was twelve—and boys of twelve can be a handful; then came Fritzi, short for Fritz. He was ten. He missed his mother. I thought: He would be a year older than my daughter, and the terrible yearning was back with me.
“Then there’s Liesel. A haughty little piece she is. Five years old and very much aware of her noble blood even though her mother was a little dressmaker who came to the court to sew.”
Again I was being caught up in that fairy-tale atmosphere. The excitement had come back to me in force. I wanted her to go on talking to me about the Schloss on the mountainside that looked down on the valley in which lay the town of Rochenberg, the capital city of Rochenstein, which was ruled over by the Duke Carl who was also the Count of Lokenburg.