Sarah’s first love

Merrie England, in the seventeenth century…

The sunlight twinkled on the rippling brook as it meandered between the meadows of Caisterdale to pass beneath the old stone bridge beside the village church.

Sarah sat at the brookside, her face in shadow oblivious to the scene, staring unseeing into the distance, book in hand but lost in her thoughts.

She heard hooves clattering upon the gravelled path, “Ah Miss Haverthorpe, one last day of freedom?” asked a familiar voice.

She looked up, John, Lord Caisterdale’s son, her childhood friend looked down upon her from his chestnut stallion.

“Yes,” she agreed quietly as she stared at his hansom face, his broad shouldered frame, his hat jauntily poised atop his mop of dark hair.

He looked down seeing the young girl of his childhood rather than the young woman in the full bloom of life which she had become

“A worthy fellow, indeed a lucky fellow, Mr Countisbury,” John chuckled, “Staid steadfast all the qualities one could wish for in an Arch Bishop, you have indeed chosen well!” he laughed.

She scowled.

“Shall we see you tonight?” he chuckled, knowing full well she would never succumb to the age old ritual of the ‘Droit de Signeur,’ where the maidenhead of all the maidens of the parish belonged to the Lord of Caisterdale to be plucked on their wedding eve.

“Yes,” she said turning to stare steadfastly at the water, “I shall be there, it is the tradition.”

He reigned in his horse and whirled around, “Yes?” he said, “Surely not?”

“Yes, I shall be there,” she repeated.

“But you don’t understand,” he said hopelessly, “Father,” He felt he needed to warn her, to warn of the world of fornication which he sampled sometimes in Harrogate or Heaton, a world away from Caisterdale where wenches cavorted wantonly for pennies, a world into which in a few furious moments his own father would propel her into unsuspecting and unwilling.

“I understand full well,” she said, “It is barbaric, half the first borns of the village have your father’s eyes.” she announced, “But it is his right, and if the humble servant girls must succumb then so must I.”

He wanted to look into her eyes, to see her soul but she stared through her book and into a world far beyond.

“I shall not allow it!” John announced, “Not you, with father, it is abhorrent, why not so long ago we were as brother and sister playing.”

“And now I have made an excellent match,” she said, adding with a degree of sarcasm, “Everyone says so.”

“Yes,” he agreed uncertainly.

The sun shone on her golden hair, glinted off her engagement ring, shone golden upon her shapely ankles and the curve of her neck, he felt stirrings, but she turned towards him once more and the moment was gone.

“And you agree?” she said, “That I shall make an excellent vicar’s wife.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, “A vicar’s daughter become a vicar’s wife, it is,” he paused seeing her discomfort, “As if ordained by the lord almighty,” he said pompously.

“steward!” she snapped and tured back to the brook with tears welling in her eyes,

The rebuke stung, had any other maid said it it would have been as nothing, had it been a servant girl she would have been whipped, but this was Sarah, whom he had known for longer than he could remember and her opinion mattered.

“I suppose we shall meet occasionally?” he queried as he struggled to come to terms with the practicalities of Sarah’s forthcoming mrriage.

“I doubt it,” she replied, “The life of a Vicar’s wife is entirely full of good works and endless mind numbing tedium!” she snapped and she threw her book down in anger, “I could scarce countenance the excitement.”

He knew not what to do or say, the whole engagement had been somewhat of a shock, his regular visits to the vicarage had perforce been curtailed by her courtship with Mr Countisbury, and indeed he knew he would miss her as he would a sister, and the thought she was to marry disturbed him deeply.

“Indeed,” he said, “Until the morrow then, good day,” he said and wheeled his horse again and rode home, his thoughts greatly troubled.

He helped stable his steed, washed the dust of the road from his face and hands, toyed with his writing and finally dressed for dinner and came down to dine.

“Oh, what form of honour is this?”his father asked, “Deigning to dine with us, is it in honour of Miss Haverthorpe?”

“Miss Haverthorpe Father?” he asked.

“Indeed, young Sarah, come to be plucked, but she will not arrive until dark,” his father averred, “Why it must be a month very near since you last forewent the delights of the Dog and Duck to dine with us,”

“I have business Father,” he insisted.

“Funny business, monkey business?” his father chided.

“Leave the poor boy alone Charles,” his mother insisted, “He is Twenty One after all.”

“Yes,” his father agreed, “And with age comes responsibility.”

“And decrepitude, his mother insisted.

“And that is the thing father,” John said forcibly, “Why you are old enough and more to be Miss Haverthorpe’s father, it is quite unseemly!”

“I had no relations with the mother I assure you,” Lord Caisterdale admitted, “But in part you are right.”

“Indeed,” added his mother, “But you see your father and I had words.”

“And therein you shock and amaze me,” John sneered, “Had words indeed?”

His mother sat bolt upright, “And the upshot is I have forbidden your father to fornicate with Miss Sarah or indeed any more maidens.”

“It’s my heart son,” the Lord said, “It pains me.”

“Oh poor Miss Haverthorpe,” John sneered.

“Poor Miss Haverthorpe indeed,” his mother insisted, “Suffering your fumblings instead.”

“What?” John protested.

“Why the duty devolves to you,” she insisted, “Now perform it honourably!”

“But we played together!” John insisted, “I cannot ravish her, she is naught but a child!”.

“Bah humbug,” she snorted, “She has become quite womanly, have you not noticed the swellings atop her chest?” she asked, “No you must seize her roughly and claim her, tear away her innosence and put her childhood behind her, just do your duty Charles.”

“Yes, it is as our mother says,” John’s father admitted, “For the chaste wench the first intrusion is agony and the blame for that pain and hurt must fall to the Signeur, so that the first conjunction betwixt husband and wife might be soft and gentle and ecstatic do you see?”

“And do I wear a skin?” John asked.

“Lord no, not if she’s pure, why half the village,” his father started to say proudly.

“Have his eyes,” his mother added, “And not just first borns!”

Johns father frowned crossly, “He blames me,” his mother confided, “But there are limits John, there is only so much a woman can take.”

“One damned child, twenty two years,” he muttered, and she smiled.

“Say Grace dear the repast grows cold,” Lady Caisterdale exclaimed as se regarded the simple beef meal before them.

“From what we are about to receive may god preserve us,” he uttered blasphemously and they started to eat.

“Excellent Beef Charles, one of ours?” his mother exclaimed.

His father put down his fork, “For you see John if you rouse the wench gently, kiss her, finger her teats, feel her womanhood gently, probe it, allow it to ripen and open gently and ease and tease the maidenhead asunder the wench will pine for you, even years after she will see her man as second best and you as her one true lover, so be brutal to be kind John.”

“He has all sorts of straps and contrivances and whips you my use, he even has stocks to take the wench’s ankles and wrists all in a row,” the mother explained, “That way she cannot resist.”

“Mother!” John protested.

“Tell him Charles!” she insisted.

“Yes,” he agreed, “A lifetimes collection efficacious in every circumstance.”

“Apart from last time?” she added.

“She was fat as a pig!” he protested.

“She lost her maidenhead to a chair leg John, how undignified!” his mother declaimed inelegantly.

“And what makes it ten times worse, your mother did the poking,” John’s father insisted, “No John, tis your duty now.”

“What, ravish Sarah?” he asked thoughtfully, “But we are like brother and sister.”

“Mr Countisbury shall be her brother now,” John’s father insisted, “Such childish ways must be set aside, she’s not been a child these two years, look at her chest, those ruby lips, the golden ringlets, are you blind, why half the village think you lovers!”

John thought hard, perhaps Sarah had become a woman without his notice, it made sense now, he must do his duty, he must for both Mr Countisbury’s sake and her sake appear to be cruel and heartless, “Then if I must I shall do my duty,” he said nobly.

The meal passed and with the dusk came the clattering of hooves and Sarah was delivered by the undertakers cart as was the custom.

“Sarah!” John’s mother welcomed her, “So tomorrow is your happy day!”

Sarah looked at the floor unhappily, “Indeed it is Lady Caisterdale.”

John’s mother replied cheerily, “Cheer up my dear, tomorrow will dawn with brilliant sunshine and only happiness will await you will see!”

“I only hope you are proved correct,” Sarah agreed.

Charles stepped forward, “It seems such a short time since you and John played together in this very room, and now he is twenty and one and you cannot be far off the same.

“It is indiscreet to ask a lady her age, ” Sarah replied, “But yes, I am almost twenty and one and as father says an unmarried wench of twenty one is a sad, morose and dissatisfied one.”

“Yes indeed,” Charles agreed, “But we have business to transact, do you have your robes child?” he asked.

“Beneath my cloak,” she said, “All virginal white awaiting to be sullied by the vivid red!”

“Quite so,” Charles interjected, “Sadly my heart is no longer able.”

“Oh thank god, I was so frightened!” Sarah gasped with evident relief.

“So John will perforce take on the duty,” he continued.

“No, not John, god no!” Sarah protested, “No it cannot be!”

“It was not my choice but it is for the best,” John assured her, “Best for all.”

“How can it be best for me?” she demanded.

“Enough,” John’s mother cried, “Desist or I shall have cook bring a scold’s bridle and silence you.