"It was such a tragedy," he said. "I was desolate when I heard. She was so young, so vital ... and you were with her, were you?"
I told him how she had died and how the Reverend Rupert Lawson had assisted us by bringing food, of which we were in desperate need.
"A good man," he said. "Many have suffered, I fear."
"You were not in London?"
"No. I was in the country. There were one or two cases there. It was not a time to come to the capital if one could avoid it. My poor Mistress Standish. It was very, very sad indeed for you."
"As for so many."
"A punishment on the unrighteous, as the Puritans tell us. Alas, it was not they who suffered. Most of them had their country houses to which they could return, while those who could not get away suffered for the sins of the unrighteous, which would seem a little unfair—if one believed in this theory, which I do not."
"Nor I," I said.
He was smiling a little ruefully.
"Enough of this sadness. 'Tis a time for rejoicing, for we have met after all this time. I have thought of you often. The little waif with her herring basket. She touched me mightily, and then when I heard that Mistress Standish was playing at Drury Lane ... well, nothing would hold me back, and then I gathered together my courage and spoke to her."
"Did it need so much courage?"
"A great deal, for if you had refused to talk to me I should have been desolate."
"I cannot see why I should refuse. I shall always remember how kindly you walked home with me."
"With you and Mistress Kitty. She took great care of you, did dear Kitty. But enough, I do not want to make you sad again. She would be pleased to see your success in your profession. You are happy about that. So let us forget all sadness. That is the best way. Tell me, where do you live? Tell me all about yourself."
"Kitty took me in to her home with Maggie Mead. We lived there and I live there still."
"I have heard of her. A lady of great character."
"That would describe her well."
"And she has taken on the role of guardian angel to the young lady recently come to the wicked city."
I laughed. "That could be so. And what of you, my lord?"
"My name is Adair. Jack Adair. Could I prevail upon you to call me Jack?"
"It seems a little ..."
He smiled. "Familiar?"
"Well, perhaps."
"Shall I tell you that nothing would please me more than such familiarity? I shall call you Sarah. May I? And I hope you will forget our brief acquaintance and call me Jack. After all, we did meet at Willerton and it is not the duration of a friendship which is so important, but its depth. I am going to be very bold and suggest that this meeting tonight is going to be the beginning of many for us. What would you say to that?"
"What could I say until I know what follows?"
"How wise. How cautious. The more I know you, the more you delight me."
^X e talked in this light bantering way until suddenly I realized that the time was passing and Maggie would be wondering where I was.
I said I must go. He looked a little disappointed but he did not seek to detain me and said instead he would walk home with me.
As we walked the short distance to Maggie's house, I realized that I had not felt so happy since Kitty died. I found this man's company exhilarating and I was delighted because of his insistence that we must meet again.
When I said goodbye to him he once more took my hand and held it for a few seconds before he raised it to his lips.
"It has been so wonderful to find you," he said. Then he smiled and added: "Rest assured that, having done so, I shall not let you elude me again."
I laughed, pretending to believe that it was merely gallant words, not to be taken too seriously.
But how I hoped this was not so.
I was eager to tell Maggie of my meeting with this gentleman, but as soon as I entered I knew that something had happened. Before I saw Maggie, Martha came to me. She had that eager and excited look people have when they have some surprising news. Whether good or bad, it makes no difference. They know something you do not and they cannot wait to tell you.
"Martha," I began, "is Mistress Maggie all right?"
She lowered her voice. "She's in a bit of a state. Miss Sarah. It's that nephew of hers."
Nephew? I remembered vaguely that Maggie's sister lived in the country somewhere and she had a son. This would be the nephew.
"What ... ?" I began.
"He's here." She pointed towards the parlor door which was shut.
"With Mistress Maggie?"
"Shut in together. It's talk, talk. He's come all the way from Dorsetshire. What it means, only the Lord knows."
"I am sure Mistress Maggie will know as well by now, Martha," I said. "Has she said anything to you?"
"No. He's had a bit to eat and he's to stay the night. I'll have to make him up a bed in the parlor. What I do know is that Mistress Maggie is all in a daze, which is not like her."
"She's in the parlor, is she?"
"Yes, with him."
"riI'lll go and see what is wrong."
I knocked at the door of the parlor and was bidden to enter.
Maggie was seated on a chair and beside her sat a man who must have been in his twenties, not unlike Maggie in appearance.
"Oh, Sarah," she said, and I fancied it was with relief. Had she been uneasy because I was late? No, I realized this crisis had driven everything else from her mind.
"Come along in, Sarah. This is my nephew. Master Abel Bagley." She turned to the young man. "Mistress Standish is a great friend of mine. She lives here."
The young man stood up and bowed.
"Sit down, Sarah," said Maggie. "I must tell you what has happened. My sister Rachel is very ill ... not expected to live. She is eager to see me. It is years since we have seen each other. Not since I first came to London. But now there is little time left to her she is most anxious that we should be together."
"I see," I said.
"Abel wants me to go back with him to Dorset."
"That is a very long way."
"It is so indeed, but Abel has made the journey. I shall go back with him."
"When do you suggest you go?"
"Abel will go back tomorrow. I shall go with him."
"But how?"
"By stage wagon."
I looked at her in horror. I had heard of the stage wagons. It was not very long ago that they had come into being. I guessed the journey to Dorset would take a week or more and, of course, it would be far from comfortable. But there was an air of determination about Maggie. I knew her well and I knew that she had made up her mind.
She came to me in my room that night. Neither of us could sleep. The effect of Maggie's news had put from my mind temporarily the excitement of the meeting with Lord Rosslyn.
She wanted to tell me what was on her mind, so she sat on the bed and we talked. She told me more about her life in that Puritan household where she had been brought up. Her sister Rachel had been her parents' favorite.
"Rachel was made in their pattern," she said. "I never was. She was a good little Puritan. I was a rebel. And she married Jacob Bagley, another such as our father. A righteous man, my father called him, which meant that he hardly ever smiled and thought it was a sin to be happy. I did not know how Rachel could have married him, but she did and with our parents' blessing, so she was proclaimed a good and dutiful daughter. I could not endure it. I left and came to London. I wanted so much to be an actress, but there was no opportunity in those days. That was when Kitty and I became friends. When I married Tom Mead I went back to see my family. It was not very successful. I knew that I could never be as they were. Rachel and I were quite different. Rachel tried to be friends but it was not easy. I could not endure that way of life. I left in a temper and I did not hear any more of her after that ... until now. She is asking for me, Sarah. She is dying. I cannot refuse to go."