I would lie there trembling sometimes, saying to myself: “You are a devil, Colum. You are cruel and wicked and I should take my children away from you. What can happen to them with such a father?”
My daughter was safe. She was essentially mine. Colum was proud of her healthy looks but he showed little interest in her. The boy was all his. Connell, now five years old, was beginning to look like his father. Colum would take him out on his pony; I had seen the boy riding on his shoulders. Connell could give that unadulterated adoration which Colum wanted. I think that Colum loved Connell more than anything on earth. He was determined to “make a man of him” and that meant bringing him up in his own image. He was succeeding admirably. The boy only came to me when he was sick, which was rarely. Then he would be like any other small child needing his mother. Colum had little patience with sickness, although if Connell was ailing he would be frantic with anxiety.
How different was my little Tamsyn. She was a bright child. Although a year and four months younger than Connell, I could see already that she was going to be more intelligent. She had a quick probing mind and asked continual questions. She was by no means pretty; she had a rather snub nose and she had missed her father’s darkness—which Connell had inherited—and was mid-brown, with large hazel eyes. Her mouth was too large and her brow too high; but to me she was perfect.
There was in Tamsyn a protective quality. It may have been that she sensed something of the relationship between myself and her father and instinctively knew that it was not all that could be desired. I always fancied that when Colum was in the nursery she was standing guard to protect me. To look at that small stalwart figure, ready to do battle on my behalf, moved me deeply. She had the same protective attitude towards Senara, which showed an uncommon trait in her character. She was going to be of the kind that fights for the rights of others.
Then there was that other occupant of our nurseries: Senara. She had been ten months old at the time of her mother’s departure and had very quickly forgotten her. Maria had never played an important part in her life in any case. It was Jennet and myself who gave her that affection and security which children look for.
It very early became clear that she was going to be a beauty. It seemed impossible that it could be otherwise with such a mother. Her hair was of the same black and silky texture as that of Maria; her eyes were long and dark; her skin of the magnolia petal kind, her nose was straight and perfectly formed and she had a lovely mouth. I wondered whether she would be as beautiful as her mother—it was too soon to say, but there was a sweet innocence about her which I felt sure Maria could never have had even in her cradle.
When Maria had left and there was all the talk about her being a witch I feared that some harm might come to Senara. She was, after all, the witch’s child. Some of the servants would not go near her and I talked seriously to Jennet about this.
“Jennet,” I said, “you must always let me know what the servants are saying. What do they think about Maria’s going away?”
“On Hallowe’en which was when she came,” said Jennet. “It goes to show. There can’t be no gainsaying that.”
“They are saying she’s a witch no doubt.”
“She be a witch, Mistress. How did her come, and where be her to now?”
“We know how she came. She was shipwrecked. Where she has gone is a mystery. People often go away discreetly.”
“To a lover, like as not,” said Jennet, touching her lips with her tongue. “She were the kind who would bewitch a man. Why …”
I stopped her. I knew she was going to say she had bewitched the master. Jennet’s tongue always ran away with her.
“It is Senara who worries me, Jennet.”
“Senara!” Jennet’s maternal feelings began to bristle. “What be wrong with Senara?”
“Nothing wrong with her health. You have been like a mother to her.”
“It do make you feel young again, Mistress, to have a little one in your arms.”
“Make sure no harm comes to her.”
“What should, Mistress, a baby … little more?”
“They will say she is the witch’s child.”
“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 relationship with Maria.
So the time began to pass, and although the servants refused to go into the Red Room and crossed themselves when they passed 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 ship. 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.”