Part 25 (1/2)

”They wouldn't harm a baby.”

”Make sure they don't, Jennet. Watch over her.”

”My dear life, Mistress, no one's going to harm that pretty creature while I'm there.”

”What of those nights when you're at Seaward with your lover?”

Jennet blushed like a schoolgirl. ”Well, there be those,” she admitted. ”But there's the girl, Amy. I talk to her. 'If any harm should come to my babies,' I said to her, 'I'll break every bone in your body.' And there's young Tamsie. She's there. She'll look after Senara. They lie close together, and Tamsie holds her hand all through the night. If she cries, Tamsie soothes her. A regular little mother she be. Nay, no harm will come to Senara.”

”Watch the talk, Jennet. People can work themselves up into hysteria over some matters and witchcraft is one of them. Maria has gone. If she was a witch then she has taken her influence somewhere else.”

”And in good time,” said Jennet. ”I could see the bewitchment in her.”

I knew she was thinking of Colum. Jennet who was wise in the ways of men would have sensed the growing tension in his relations.h.i.+p with Maria.

So the time began to pa.s.s, and although the servants refused to go into the Red Room and crossed themselves when they pa.s.sed it, I was sure that there was less talk of witchcraft in the kitchens than there had been.

It was not until August of that year that my mother came. It was wonderful to see her. I told her in detail of Maria's departure and she was pleased that she had gone. ”A woman like that is unsettling in a household,” she said.

She loved the children and Tamsyn was her favourite. There was something very appealing about my grave little girl.

My mother had all the latest news from London where, she told me in hushed tones, twenty-eight thousand people had died of the plague.

”These terrible epidemics,” she sighed. ”Is there no end to them? How I wish some means could be found of stopping them!” She went on: ”You must come to Lyon Court and bring the children with you. Your father complains that he sees you rarely.”

”He should come here with you.”

”He is always engaged on a voyage or preparing for one.”

”Is he getting along amicably with the Landors?”

”As well as can be expected. You know your father. He is not the easiest man to work with. He wants all his own way.”

”And Fennimore ... ?”

My mother looked at me sharply. She sensed that something had changed at the castle and I knew she was wondering if I were regretting my marriage. I was not sure whether I could truthfully say that I did. I could confess to myself that now and then I thought of Fennimore Landor, with the gentle kindly face and the idealism of his expression. He wanted to make a better world. He was that sort of man. Colum cared nothing for the world, only his own profit. Now I was beginning to think as I had long ago of how different my life might have been if I had not gone on that journey and met Colum. I should I was sure, have married Fennimore. We should have had children. I should have spent my time between Trystan Priory and Lyon Court and I was sure I should have been happy-in a quiet, secure and peaceful way.

Did I regret? How can I say? At times, yes. But then my children would not have been Connell and Tamsyn and when you have children whom you love how can you wish that you had others, which you undoubtedly would have had with a different father.

”Fennimore,” said my mother, ”is as enthusiastic as he ever was. He believes wholeheartedly in this project. And so does your father now. They have built a new s.h.i.+p. It is a joint project. They have named her the Landor Lion. She is due to go out to the East Indies early next year.”

”And his son ... ?”

”He is at Trystan Priory with his mother.”

”You see them now and then?” I asked.

”Oh yes indeed.” I wanted to ask what Fennimore's wife was like and if he was happy with her and did he ever think of me. Which was vanity, of course. It would be better for us both if we never thought of each other.

”And ... his son? Are there any other children?”

”There is a girl besides young Fenn.”

”What is she called?”

My mother hesitated a moment and then she said: ”Melanie.”

”I see. After Fennimore's sister. They are happy, I suppose?”

”Yes. It is a quiet household. Of course Fennimore is away at sea a great deal, as your father, Carlos and Jacko are too. Romilly misses Penn a great deal, for he sails now with your father.”

”I am glad,” I said, ”that the trading business is proving successful.”

”You are lucky to have a husband who does not go to sea, Linnet. Always when they set out one wonders when and whether they will return.”

I was silent, thinking of Colum battling with the waves in his small boat, luring men to their deaths for the sake of their cargo.

I was on the point of telling my mother, but as was to happen so many times, I did not.

Time was pa.s.sing and Maria was hardly ever mentioned now. I often wondered whether Colum thought of her. There were my mother's visits, but Colum raised objections when I wished to go and stay with her. I had the feeling that he believed I should never come back. There would always be an excuse when my mother wanted me to go. He had heard that there were robbers on the road and could not himself spare the time to take me. He wanted to take Connell with him somewhere and he was not sure which day he was going. How could I travel with three young children? There was always some excuse. I must wait until he could travel with me.

”Vagabonds and robbers are being driven out of the big cities,” he told me. ”And where will they come? Into the country! There are so many of them in the cities that the mayor of London and the Star Chamber are determined to rid the capital of them. They beg constantly and make a nuisance of themselves, and because they persist they are hanged on the gallows in London as a warning for all to see. And what will they do? Come to the country. They will beg by the roadside and if you do not give they will take-and like as not murder you for good measure. Do you think I am going to allow my children to make a journey in such conditions!”

There was truth in this for my mother wrote that she had heard from London that those who persisted in begging were hanged by order of the magistrates.

So we did not go to Lyon Court, though my mother made the journey to us. When she came she brought a bodyguard of servants and any robbers would have had short shrift from them. I suggested to Colum that I travelled likewise protected, but he would not hear of it.

That Christmas, however, he agreed that we should go to Lyon Court and we travelled there with the three children, Jennet and two other women and about four grooms.

My father was home and delighted to see us, particularly the children. He was greatly attracted to Connell and loved to see my son, legs apart, imitating his grandfather and father. I sighed to myself because I knew that he was going to be such another as they. They sensed this too but it delighted them.

My father took him on his s.h.i.+ps and was eager to make a sailor of him. I encouraged this. I would rather he followed my father's trade than that of his own father. Tamsyn was my mother's favourite and I was so pleased that my little daughter was determined that Senara should not be left out. Not that my mother would have attempted to do that, but wherever Tamsyn was, there was Senara.

The child was three years old, rather precocious and undeniably beautiful-quite the beauty of the family. My father studied her closely and nodded at her. I could see he thought that she was one of Colum's b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

He listened attentively to the story of Maria's being washed up on the sh.o.r.e and brought to the castle to bear her child. I could see the twinkle in his eyes as he surveyed Colum. It meant, he understood. This was Colum's way of introducing his child into the castle.

He would not have thought so if he had seen that poor half-drowned woman I had found on the sh.o.r.e. His connoisseur's eye was quick to note Senara's appearance.

”She'll be a little beauty, that one,” he commented, and choked with laughter. He liked to think of other men's misdemeanours. I supposed that made his own seem in the natural course of events.

I remember the fierce arguments that Christmas. My father raged against the Spaniards as he used to in the days of my childhood. He choked with rage when he talked about the descent they had made on Penzance that July.

”By G.o.d, the Dons have raided our coast. Have they forgotten we have driven them off the seas?”

”Have we?” said my mother. ”If that is so, how did they get to Penzance?”

”Our own coast!” spluttered my father. ”What say you, son-in-law? Do you not think we should take out s.h.i.+ps and harry them?”

”I do indeed,” said Colum.