Will You Love Me in September

I was half-dragged across the hall to a staircase. I tried, under the guise of sleepiness, to note where I was going. As we left the hall the two men who were escorting me took candles from a shelf by the staircase and lighted us up the stairs. We came to a landing on which there were several doors. I was prodded toward another staircase, which we mounted and which led to a long gallery. We walked through this to a wooden door, beyond which was a passage with more rooms. Then we ascended a pair of steps to a kind of attic. It was large, and the roof, which had two windows in it, sloped steeply. I noticed a bed, a stool and a table. I was pushed inside and left alone. I heard the key turn in the lock.

I stood in the center of the room, my heart beating wildly. I was wide awake in spite of my exhaustion. How was I going to get out of here? The windows were in the roof; I should have to stand on the stool to see out of them and then all I would see would be the sky. There was a curtain at one end of the room. I went to it, drawing it back, disclosed a hip bath and a small table. I turned away, and going back to the bed, sat on it.

How could I possibly escape? If I told them all I knew they would not be satisfied, because I knew nothing that was of importance. It was common knowledge that the Jacobites had always been a threat. They had been for years. What could I tell them more than that?

And they would not believe me.

I lay down on the bed, and in spite of my bewilderment and fear, in spite of my growing apprehension, I fell fast asleep.

When I awoke the attic was filled with light, which came through the windows in the roof. I was stiff with cold. At first I could not remember where I was, and then the horrible realization dawned on me.

I got off the bed and went to the door. I shook it, which was a foolish thing to do, for it was a heavy oak and I had heard the key turn in the lock. I wondered what my captors intended to do with me, and horrible thoughts came into my mind. I thought of what I had heard of prisoners tortured in the Tower of London. I visualized the thumbscrews, the rack, the scavenger's daughter-that fearful iron case shaped like a woman, with nails lining it, into which victims were forced and, as their tormentors cruelly joked, were "embraced" until the nails entered their flesh.

They would not have one of those, I reassured myself. But there were other cruelties they could inflict without such complicated instruments.

I was growing more and more frightened as the minutes passed. I had longed for adventure.

Now I longed for nothing so much as to be back in my cozy cocoon.

I started, for I thought I heard footsteps.

I looked at my watch, which was still hanging on the chain round my neck. I was surprised to see that it was nine o'clock.

Yes, the footsteps were coming to my door; a key was turning in the lock, and the door wheezed open. I realized later that the attic was rarely used.

I expected to see the villainous Frenshaw but instead a young boy stood there. I was astonished because he seemed to be about my own age, and that comforted me. Moreover, having expected Frenshaw or one of his men, this boy looked beautiful by comparison.

He was wigless and his waving hair was cut to a fringe, so that it made a shiny bell about his face. His skin was clear and pale, his eyes deep blue. I thought I was dreaming or perhaps that they had killed me and I had gone to heaven. This boy's face had that purity of expression that might have belonged to an angel.

He looked at me steadily and said, "Are you ready to tell us what you passed to the enemy?”

So he was one of them after all. It was strange that he should be so young and look so innocent of evil.

"I told them I knew nothing," I said shortly. "I have nothing to tell. You had better let me go from here. When my family hears how I have been treated . , . .”

He held up a hand. "I shall not let you go from here until you have told us all you know.”

I cried out in desperate exasperation, "How can I tell when there is nothing to tell!

If you keep me here until I die of cold and starvation, I can tell you nothing .

. . because I know nothing.”

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"I have not eaten for a long time.”

"Wait," he said.

He went out, shutting and locking the door after him.

I felt a certain lifting of my spirits. He looked so young and as if he might listen and take heed of what I said. I might be able to convince him that I was speaking the truth. But what about the others?

It was a tense ten minutes before he returned. I heard his footsteps coming along the gallery and mounting the three or four steps to the attic. He opened the door and came in bearing a tray on which was a bowl of oatmeal.

"There," he said. "Eat that.”

I took the tray. I was ravenously hungry and food had never tasted so good.

When I had eaten it all he said, "Do you feel better ... more inclined to talk?”