He was concerned. His first thoughts were for the fishponds. He took off the great white apron he wore and his hands still floury he ran as fast as he could to the ponds.
Fortunately two of the fishers were there. They said they had been there all the morning and they would surely have seen the child if she had come that way.
We were greatly relieved. By this time Eugene had joined us; there were also the children’s nurses and Clement thought it would be better if we split up and made two or three search parties. So this we did. I went with one of the young nursemaids, a girl of fourteen named Luce.
I suddenly thought of the tunnels. I had never explored the tunnels. Many of them were blocked and Bruno had expressed a wish that no one should attempt to penetrate them as he feared they might be dangerous. When he was a boy there had been a collapse of earth in some of them; and one monk had been buried alive there.
I thought of this as I ran toward the tunnels and imagined little Honey hurt because she thought she had been displaced by my own little girl and for this reason running away or going to some forbidden place.
I had told her that she was not to go near the tunnels or the fishponds, but when children wish to call attention to themselves or are unhappy because of some imagined slight I was well aware that the first thing they do is disobey.
I called: “Honey! Honey!”
There was no answer.
“She would surely not enter the tunnels,” said the nurse. “She would be afraid.”
I was not sure.
To reach the tunnel it was necessary to descend a stone stairway; and this I proceeded to do. The young nursemaid stood at the top of the stairs, too frightened to descend, but I was too anxious about Honey to be afraid.
I called her name as I went. Having come in from the bright sunshine I could see nothing for a while. And then suddenly from below a dark figure loomed up out of the gloom. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I took a step forward, the step was not there and I fell down two or three steps and landed on the dank soil.
The dark figure bent over me. I screamed.
A voice said: “Damask!”
It was Bruno who stood over me and I could sense his anger.
“What are you doing here?”
“I…I fell.”
“I know that. You came here in the dark! For what purpose?”
“Honey is lost,” I said. He helped me to my feet. I was shaking.
He said: “Are you all right?” There was anxiety in his voice and I thought resentfully: It is not for me, it is for the child.
I replied shakily: “Yes, I am all right. Have you seen Honey? She is lost.”
He was impatient.
“I have asked you not to enter these tunnels.”
“I never have before. It was because the child might have wandered down.”
“She is not here. I should have seen her if she had been.”
He took me by the arm and together we mounted the stairway. When we reached the top he studied me intently. Then he said: “Never go down there again. It is unsafe.”
I said: “What of you, Bruno?”
“I know those tunnels. I knew them as a boy. I should know what to avoid and how to take care.”
I was too concerned about Honey to question this at the time, but it would come back to me later.
He left us abruptly and the nursemaid and I went back to the house. Honey was still not found.
I was getting frantic when a young boy from one of the shepherds’ dwellings came with a message.
Honey was at Mother Salter’s cottage. Would I go to bring her home as soon as I could?
I lost no time but went immediately to the cottage in the woods.
The fire was burning as I had seen it many times before and above it was the soot-black pot. On one side of the fire sat Mother Salter; she did not seem to have altered since I had first seen her, and on the other fireside seat sat Honey. There were smudges on her face and her gown was dirty. I gave a cry of joy and ran to her. I would have embraced her but she held aloof. I was aware of Mother Salter’s watching eyes.
“Honey!” I cried. “Where have you been? I have been so frightened.”
“Did you think you had lost me?”
“Oh, Honey. I was afraid something dreadful had happened to you.”
“You wouldn’t care. You have Catty and the new one coming.”
I said: “Oh, Honey, do not think that means I can bear to part with you.”
She was still half sullen. “You can bear it,” she said. “You like Catty best.”
“Honey, I love you both.”
“The child does not think so.” It was Mother Salter speaking in her low croaking voice.
“She is wrong. I have been frantic with anxiety.”
“Take her then. It would be well to love her.”
“Come, Honey,” I said, “you want to come home, don’t you? You don’t want to stay here?”
She looked around the room and I could see that she was fascinated by what she saw. “Wrekin likes me.”
“Spot and Pudding like you,” I said, naming two of our dogs.
She nodded with pleasure. I had taken her hand and she did not resist. She continued to gaze around the room and because she had not learned to disguise her feelings I could see she was comparing it with her comfortable nursery at the Abbey. She wanted to come home but did not wish me to have too easy a victory. I knew Honey. She was a possessive, jealous little creature. For some time she had had me to herself and deeply she resented sharing me.
“It is the same with all elder children,” I said to Mother Salter.
“Take care of this child,” she replied. “Take the utmost care.”
“I have always done so.”
“It would be well for you that you do.”
“There is no need for threats. I love Honey. It was a common enough sort of jealousy. How did she come here?”
“I watch over this child. She ran away and was lost in the wood. I knew it and sent a boy to find her. He brought her to me.”
Her eyes were veiled; her mouth was smiling but her eyes were cold.
“I should know if she lacked aught,” she went on.
“Then you know how well cared for she is.”
“Take the child back. She is tired. She will know to come to me if she is in need.”
“She will never be in need while I am here to care for her.”
As we left the cottage I gripped Honey’s hand tightly.
“Never, never run away again,” I said.
“I won’t if you love me best…better than Cat…better than the new one.”
“I can’t love you better, Honey. There is not all that love in the world. I can love you as well.”
“I don’t want the new one. I told Granny Salter I didn’t want the new one.”
“But there will be three of you. Three is better than two.”
“No,” she said firmly. “One’s best.”
I took her home and washed the grime from her, gave her milk and a great slice of cob bread freshly baked for her by Clement with a big H on it. This delighted her and she was happy again.
But when she was in bed I was seized by gripping pains and that night I miscarried.
My mother, hearing what happened, had come over at once bringing the midwife with her.
“It would have been a little boy,” said the midwife. I did not entirely believe her; she was one of those lugubrious women who liked a tragedy to be of the first magnitude. She knew that we had wanted a boy.
It was great good fortune, she implied, that I had survived at all and it was in fact due to her great skill. I was confined to my bed for a week and during this time I had time to think. I could not forget Bruno’s face when he knew what had happened. The precious child lost! Surely the King himself had not looked more thunderous when he had stood over his sad Queen’s bed. I even imagined I saw hatred in his face then.