“She has married again.”
“But why should she not? She is so beautiful. Many men would wish to marry her. It is good news, is it not? Why should she not marry?”
My mother was again silent. I turned to her in astonishment. She seemed to steel herself. Then she said: “Honey has married Carey.”
I stared at the green grass, at the sun glinting on the pond. I pictured them together. Beautiful Honey and Carey, my Carey… Why should I feel this sudden anger? I could not have him and it was inevitable that he should marry one day. Had I not done so … twice? And if he was to have a wife, why should it not be Honey, who had long loved him?
My mother had reached for my hand and pressed it warmly. She said: “I asked Manuela to bring Roberto to us. I think I hear her coming now.”
I knew she was telling me: You have your son. Forget the impossible dream. That is the past. Here is the present. It is for you to make the future.
And Manuela came leading my son and when he saw me he ran to me.
“Madre, Madre,” he cried; and I knew that while I lay ill and cut off from him he had suffered deeply.
I said: “I am well again, Roberto. Here I am. Why, we have missed each other.”
And I was comforted.
My mother would talk of everything except Honey and her marriage, but I could not forget it. I pictured them in Remus Castle, laughing happily together, talking of the old days, making love. Did they ever mention me? I wondered. And how would Carey feel if they did?
Honey was both beautiful and lovable. There was a serenity in her beauty which I think made it doubly appealing to men. There was nothing of the wildcat about Honey; she was adaptable. She had been a good wife to Edward although she had loved Carey; she had appeared to forget Edward and had devoted herself to Luis; and now she would have forgotten them both for Carey. And I had to confess that she had always loved Carey.
My mother talked of what was happening at home. How her half brother twins were eager to go to sea and how my grandmother was trying to dissuade them, of the flowers my grandmother was growing and the many bottles that lined the shelves of her still room. “She is becoming quite an apothecary and people come to her for cures.”
My mother was a little easier in her mind because there was less fear of a Catholic rebellion. The marriage of the Queen of Scots to Lord Darnley had been a good thing for England. The young consort was such an overbearing, arrogant, dissolute and generally unsatisfactory man that he was causing a great deal of dissension above the Border.
“It is better for them to quarrel among themselves than to seek a conflict with us,” said my mother. “That is what everyone is saying.”
The turmoil up there had increased when the shocking murder of the Scottish Queen’s secretary had taken place at her supper table.
My mother shuddered. “People have been speaking of nothing else. Mary is with child and was supping privately at Holyrood when certain of her nobles burst in and dragged the young man from the table. Poor fellow, they say, he clung to the Queen’s skirts and begged her to save him. What an ordeal for a woman six months with child! It was said that Secretary Rizzio was her lover. This seems unlikely. Poor woman! Why, Cat, she is but your age.”
“Perhaps we should be thankful we are not born royal.”
My mother said soberly: “There are dangers enough for all folk, royal or not. But it seems that matters are less tense because of this conflict in Scotland. Our good Queen Elizabeth is highly thought of and surrounds herself with able statesmen, and what we need is a good stable monarch. There is of course the religious conflict. They say the Queen is Protestant because she could be no other and it is for expediency’s sake she is so. But I must whisper that, Cat. One must guard one’s tongue. We are fortunate in our Queen. But as long as the Queen of Scots lives there will be danger. It is wrong to hope for trouble for others, but it does appear that the more disasters which befall the Court of Scotland the more peacefully will English men and women sleep in their beds.”
It was a lovely May day when the fruit trees were in blossom and the hedges full of wild parsley and stitchwort and the birds everywhere were in full song. A glorious time of the year when nature renews herself and there is a song of thanksgiving from the blackbird and chaffinch, the swifts and the swallows.
And at this time Jake brought Romilly Girling into the house.
She was twelve years old—a sad little waif when he brought her, very thin with great green eyes too big for her small white face.
They arrived late at night after the journey from St. Austell and the girl was almost asleep when they came into the hall.
“This is Romilly,” said Jake. “Captain Girling’s daughter. She’ll live with us. This is her home now.”
I understood at once. The girl had lost both parents. She would be without a home and I was glad that Jake had brought her. I ordered that a room should be made ready for her and she was given hot food and sent to bed without delay.
Jake explained. “There was very little left. The two of them … she and her brother … were in the house alone. The servant had gone. They were almost starved to death. A distant cousin of the Captain’s took the boy. All I could do was bring the girl here. Her father served me well.”
“We will care for her,” I said warmly.
It was wonderful to see the girl react to good food and comfortable living. She filled out a little; but she was still rather waiflike—a dainty elflike creature with quiet manners. Her great beauty was her eyes, they were big and such a strange green color that they immediately attracted attention. Her hair was dark and thick and straight. She had short, stubby lashes even darker than her hair.
June came and my mother said she must return home. Rupert was the most patient of husbands, but naturally he missed her. We said farewell and I watched her for as long as I could ride off with her party for the first stage of the long journey home.
By August of that year the Rampant Lion was ready to put to sea. Jake had been ashore too long. News had at length reached us that in June the Queen of Scots had given birth to a son. He was called James and this boy would be said to have a right to the throne of England.
Jake said: “The plaguey Spaniards would put his mother on the throne. You know what that means. We’d have the Papists here in no time. It would be the Smithfield fires before we knew where we were. They’ve got to be driven off the seas and it’s up to English sailors to show them who are the masters.”
I knew what this meant.
He was longing to put to sea again; and this time the Rampant Lion would be trusted to none but himself.
I was once more pregnant.
And in September of that year Jake sailed out of Plymouth.
The Birth of a Boy
A FEW WEEKS AFTER Jake had left I made a disturbing discovery. I could not find Roberto. I had asked the boys where he was and they could not tell me. I was not unduly worried until a few days later he was missing again.
Knowing how close he was to Manuela, I decided to ask her if she knew where he was and I went up to the room she shared with the servants. She was not there, but one of the others told me they had seen her going up to the turret.
I mounted the steep spiral staircase to the rooms in the turret which were rarely used and as I approached I heard the sound of murmuring voices.
I opened a door and as soon as I did so I knew exactly what was happening. An altar had been set up; a candle burned at either end and kneeling at it were Manuela and Roberto.
They started up and Manuela’s arm went protectively about Roberto.
“Manuela,” I cried, “what are you doing?”
Her olive skin darkened and her eyes flashed defiantly.
“It is for me,” she said, “to look after Roberto.”
I was afraid. I knew that she was instructing Roberto in the Catholic Faith, her faith and that of his father. Had we stayed in Tenerife Roberto would naturally have followed that faith, but we were not in Tenerife and I knew what would happen if Jake ever discovered that any under his roof were as he would say “Papists.”