It seemed to me in those first few days at Trystan Priory that there was a very good chance that one day I would be mistress of it.
Fennimore’s mother was eager to talk about the household and during the second day she asked me to come to her room. She wanted to show me the tapestry on which she was working. She showed me the design which was to depict the glorious victory over the Armada and she herself had composed it. It would take her years to complete, she told me.
The canvas was set up on a gigantic frame and on it was sketched the picture she would work. It was attractive. There were the little ships and the great Spanish galleons. There was the King of Spain in his gloomy Escorial and the Duke of Medina Sidonia with his ships. And on the other hand we had our own Queen at Tilbury and Sir Francis playing bowls on the Hoe. And the battle—the fireships which caused such havoc and the broken galleons drifting out to sea.
“Why,” I said, “it is almost a life work.”
“I shall start it … as indeed I have,” she said. “It will be for future members of my family to finish it.”
It was almost as though she were putting a needle into my hand and telling me to begin.
“It will be wonderful when it is completed.”
“I hope to see it finished,” she said.
“But of course you must.”
“I have hundreds of skeins of silk stored away.” She talked of the colours she would use. Reds, scarlets and gold; black for the costume of the King of Spain; scarlet and gold for our Queen. “Oh my dear Linnet, what a terrible time that was. I hope never to live through such a time. I have never known such a time of wretchedness … except …”
She stopped and bit her lip. Then she brightened; “But it is over now. There are still dangers at sea … but the Spaniards can do us little harm now. I was always terrified of them … terrified that they would come here. And of course when the men sailed away I used to shut myself in my sanctuary—” she inclined her head towards a door leading from her room—“and there I used to pray that they would come back safely. But you are a sailor’s daughter. You know.”
I considered this. It had never occurred to me that my father would not come back. There was something invincible about him, and he always had returned. Though there had been a time when he was gone so long that it had seemed that it was for ever.
“If I had lost them,” she went on, “that would have been death to me. I should have had no one left … no one. After Melanie …”
Her face puckered suddenly and she seemed to come to a decision. She said: “Come with me.”
I rose and she went to the door I had seen. She opened it.
I followed her into a room. It was rather dark as there was only one small window, lead-paned. In this room I noticed a crucifix and before it a table on which were candle sticks. It was like an altar.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I come in here to be alone and pray.”
Then I saw a picture on the wall. It was of a young girl about fifteen, I imagined. She had fair hair which fell about her shoulders and blue eyes. She was remarkably like Fennimore.
“She is beautiful, do you agree?” said Fennimore’s mother.
I did agree.
“My daughter. My Melanie.”
“I was not aware that you had a daughter.”
“I had a daughter. Alas, she died.”
“How sad.”
She lowered her head as though she could not bear to go on looking at that lovely young face.
“I had the picture brought in here. I could not bear to see it every time I passed it in the gallery. I wanted it where I could see it in private, where I could weep over it if I had to, and look at it and remember.”
“Was it long ago?” I asked.
“Three years.”
“So recent?”
She nodded.
I was not sure whether she wanted to talk or not, so I tried to convey my sympathy without seeming curious.
“She was murdered.”
“Murdered!”
“Please, I cannot talk of it. She was too young for marriage. I should never have allowed it and … she died.”
“She was your only daughter?”
She nodded.
“You have your son.”
Her face cleared a little. “He is the best son a woman could have. Thank God we have Fennimore. But we lost Melanie … my little Melanie. I often say to myself: I should never have allowed it. I shall never forget the day she told me she was going to have another child.”
“She had had others?”
“No. Attempts. They all failed. It was clear she was not meant for childbearing and when she told me that yet again … a terrible cold fear came over me. It was as though the angel of Death had entered. It was here in this room. I can see her now, the fear in her fair young face and I wanted to … to … But never mind. I shouldn’t be talking like this to you.”
“Please talk if you want to. I will respect your confidence.”
“She was different from you. She hadn’t your strength. She wasn’t meant to bear children. She should never have married. If only I could go back … I would never have allowed it. And so we lost her.”
She put out a hand and I took it, holding it firmly.
“I wanted you to know,” she said, “because … because … you … you seem like one of us.”
It was almost as though she were proposing marriage to me on behalf of her son.
My father arrived that day. The house suddenly seemed more noisy. He was impressed with the Priory and slightly smug because it did not seem quite as grand to him as Lyon Court. Meals had become more elaborate and were taken in the great hall instead of the winter parlour. We dined at the fashionable time of eleven in the morning and supped between seven and eight. There was a great deal of talk at these meals and my father was often in conference with Fennimore and his. I believed that they were getting along very well and that my father was becoming more and more interested in the project.
He had no intention of staying long though. He was eager to be off. Each morning he rode down to the coast and went on his ship. He was going on round Land’s End to the north coast and would be away some weeks before returning home. My mother and I were to travel back the way we had come.
Neither of us had said anything about our adventure on the way. The man had, after all, allowed us to have the better room, my mother pointed out, so we could not complain about his taking it from us. “Your father would make more out of it than was actually there. You know how he loves a fight,” she said. “Moreover, we should never be allowed to travel on our own again.” So we did not mention it, and it was arranged that we should return as we had come, with Jennet and the two grooms.
Each day my father was being drawn to the idea of trade. It was, after all, a battle of sorts—the fight for supremacy on the sea. He had no doubt as to who would win that battle, and as the days passed he was more and more eager to begin it.
There was still news coming in of Spanish disasters, of ships being washed up along the coast, of men who had come to our coasts at dead of night and wormed their way into our villages pretending to be anything but Spaniards. My father could never hear enough of them, and in his opinion no fate was too bad for them.
I could see that the Landors thought him too extreme but they accepted that a man whose fame was known through the West Country for a valiant seaman and servant of the Queen, must be allowed to express his opinions.
He had a soft spot for all seamen and was faintly critical of the Queen’s parsimony towards her sailors. It was the first time I had known him to do anything but praise her.
“By God,” he said, “these are the men who helped to save our country. Are they to go hungry now their task is done?”