Saraband for Two Sisters

“Do come, Bersaba. It seems so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to talk to you about. I miss you and mother terribly, but if you could come it would be a wonderful help to me. Bersaba, I need you here. You are stronger now. Are you strong enough for the journey? I do hope so and I do believe you will want to come when I tell you how much I need you.”

I read the letter through when I had written it. It sounded like a cry for help.

BERSABA

Escape from the Grave

I am changed. It is no use their telling me I am not. I have come near to death and only by a miracle-which was brought about through the assiduous care of my mother and Phoebe-have I survived. This terrible disease has set its mark on me. Who ever heard of anyone who escaped unscathed! I know that either my mother or Phoebe remained at my bedside through day and night and not once did they sleep while they were there, but they took it in turns to spend the long nights with me.

It is because of this that I am not completely disfigured. On my brows there are one or two of those horrible scars, more on my neck, one on my left cheek, but my mother and Phoebe saved me from the worst and there are few who have suffered the dreadful disease and come through it who show as few signs as I do. My mother bound my hands to my sides that I might not in my sleep touch the hateful sores; they watched over me; they bathed me in special oils made by my mother and learned from hers; they fed me broth and milk and beef tea; and they would not let me see myself in a mirror until they were sure that the disfiguration was going to be slight. Although I was grateful that it is, I cannot pretend I am the same. I have grown thin and my eyes seem too big for my face. My mother says it has not impaired my looks, but I often ask myself if that is truth or mother love which makes her see me so.

For months, even after the infection had left me, I was conscious of a lassitude. I did not want to do anything but lie on my bed and read, and sometimes brood and ask fate why this had had to happen to me.

When my mother first told me that she had sent Angelet away I was relieved because I knew that everyone in the household ran the risk of taking the disease which I had brought in from the midwife. Afterward I began to feel a little resentful. It seemed unfair that Angelet should be having gay adventures while I should have this fearful one. But when Phoebe came into my room, her eyes round with adoration, I felt better, for there is no doubt that to Phoebe I am a mixture of saint and Amazon-a goddess of power and virtue. I like that, for my nature is one that revels in admiration. I suppose most people like it, but my love of it is inordinate. That was why I always wanted to score over Angelet. Now she is married to a very important man, it seems-a General in the King’s Army-and my mother says that he is well known to people who have called at the house and they think that Angelet has made a very good match indeed. And it is all because of what happened to me, for if I had not contracted this disease, both Angelet and I would be here in Trystan Priory, and since we had passed our eighteenth birthdays my mother would have been bestirring herself to get us husbands. Who would have believed that Angelet would find her own!

I often think of her and wonder what she is doing. We had been so close, we had always done everything together ... well, not everything. She had known nothing of my affair with Bastian. And now we were miles apart, separated by distance and all the experiences she must be having in her new life.

I have taken to riding each day. The first time I sat in the saddle since my illness I felt like a novice, terrified that I was going to fall, but that soon passed, and my mother agreed that I should ride a little each day. Sometimes she accompanied me and often I went Math the grooms.

I am very conscious of the marks on my face.

“They are nothing,” said my mother. “In fact no one would notice them. You must wear a fringe on your forehead, which I hear from Angelet’s letters is most fashionable.” Phoebe cut my fringe and curled it, but whenever I looked at myself in a mirror my eyes went to the scars. I used to get angry sometimes and think of Angelet, who had had an exciting adventure ending in marriage while her skin remained as smooth and fresh as mine used to be.