Текст книги "Witch from the Sea"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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“Somewhere in my heart, Tamsyn, I always knew that he was the one for me. Always, when I was far away from him, I remembered that he was there in my life. And now he is there no more.”

I tried to comfort her. I told her I felt that my mother was not really gone. “I seem to feel her there close to me,” I said. “When I am unhappy or frightened I call to her. Then I’m not afraid any more.”

“May God bless you, little granddaughter,” she said.

Fenn Landor came to be with us on the day of the burial. He had grown up and was different from the boy I had met before. He would soon be sixteen—and so should I. We were no longer children.

My grandfather was buried in the Pennlyon burial grounds. They were not as large as ours at Paling, for the Pennlyons had only been in the house for a few generations.

Connell, Senara, Fenn and I used to go out riding together and Fenn and I always seemed to find ourselves together. He liked that because he wanted to talk to me about the Trading Company of which he was now a member. He was going to take his father’s place, he said. He still talked a great deal about his father.

“One of these days,” he said, “I shall find out what happened to him.”

I remembered his grandmother who thought he was at the bottom of the sea. We could talk together about our parents, both being in the same position, and we were very happy together.

Senara grumbled. “You and Fenn Landor are always going off together.”

“Why should we not?”

“I think he’s a bore.”

“You may think what you please. That does not affect my opinion.”

She stamped her foot. “If I were a witch,” she said, “I’d put a spell on him.”

“Don’t dare say such things, Senara,” I retorted angrily.

She looked a little frightened.

“I would though,” she went on. Then she was soft and clinging. I never knew anyone to change moods more quickly than Senara. “Don’t like him better than you like me, will you, Tamsyn?”

“As if I could.”

But she set me wondering.

I did like Fenn. I liked him very much indeed and I hated saying goodbye to him when it was time to return to Castle Paling.

“We shall meet again soon,” he said. “I will call at the castle and you must come and visit us.”

When we went home Fenn rode with us. It was on the way to his home of Trystan Priory, he said.

My grandmother was a little dubious when she heard that he proposed accompanying us; then she lifted her shoulders. “Why not?” she said. “He will protect you from the dangers of the road.”

Later when we were alone, just before I left, she said: “The two families have never met since the death of your father’s first wife. It used to be rather awkward when your mother was alive. We saw so much of the Landors, being involved in business together, and Fenn’s grandmother could not be induced to see anyone connected with your father.”

“Why ever not?”

“Your father’s first wife was her daughter.”

“Her daughter. The one she said was …”

She stopped me before I could finish. “She was hysterical with grief. She refused to see things as they really were. She wanted to blame someone for her daughter’s death so she blamed the daughter’s husband. What happened was that your father’s first wife died in childbed.”

“And she blamed my father for that?”

“She was of the opinion that her daughter was too frail to bear children and should never have been allowed to try to do so.”

“That seems unreasonable of her.”

“People are not always reasonable in their grief.”

“And for that reason she would not meet my father!”

“That’s true, Tamsyn.”

“She made a strange remark about my mother. Do you remember when I went into her room on that night and found her crying?”

“I remember it well. It was just after the disappearance of young Fenn’s father. Poor soul! I think the loss of her children unhinged her mind.”

“But what she said about my mother …”

“I cannot bear to think of it, Tamsyn. My daughter … she was so young. And to die in her bed.”

“Her heart failed, they said.”

“And she had been unwell and had not told me. The greatest regret of my life is that I was not there to nurse her.”

“She did not appear to need nursing. I was with her on the nights preceding that one. But on her last night I was not there.”

My grandmother covered my hand with hers.

“My dearest, we must try not to grieve. So Fenn is going to ride back with you. He will stay a night or two at the castle, I dare say, for I am sure your father will not object. You like Fenn, do you not?”

“Oh, I do. He is so interesting and so … good.”

She smiled. “At one time I thought his father might have married your mother. The son is so like the father that sometimes I could believe it is Fennimore who is here and the girl who likes him so much my own Linnet.”

“Did you want her to marry that Fennimore?” I asked.

She turned her head away and did not answer. Then she said suddenly: “She wanted your father. In the end it was her choice.”

I did not quite know what she meant by that but I believed the subject was painful to her and I did not want to make her more unhappy than she already was.

I forgot a little of the sorrow I had left behind me at Lyon Court when I was riding along with Fenn. He talked a great deal about the trading company and how they would miss my grandfather. “But it is some years since he went to sea. He was a great sailor. I don’t think he ever quite got over the loss of the Landor Lion. It seemed so strange to disappear like that … after it had been sighted quite near the Sound.”

I was afraid he was going to talk about his father, and although I was very interested I knew it was a depressing subject and I wanted to get away from depression. I kept thinking about my mother who might have married his father and if she had how different everything would be.

It had put an idea into my head which might have been there before. What I mean was that I recognized it was a possibility and it was one which gave me a great deal of pleasure.

What if I should marry Fenn?

I was sure my mother, if she could do so, would approve of this. She had been very fond of Fenn’s father. He must have been very like Fenn; then why had she married my father?

During that ride home I thought now and then of my father. I seemed to see him for the first time. I did not love him in truth, although I had always thought I had, simply because it was the dutiful thing to love one’s father. I was happier when he was away; I kept out of his range as much as possible. He had very little interest in me, I was sure. Connell had always been his favourite. I wondered then why my mother had loved him more than Fenn’s father. He had probably decided that she should. He was the sort of man who made people’s decisions for them. He was hard and cruel, I knew. I had seen men after they had been whipped because they disobeyed him. There was a whipping-post in the courtyard before the Seaward Tower. The servants were terrified of him.

I wondered what Fenn would think of him, Fenn who was kind. That was what I liked about him. He was so kind and gentle too. If he had boys and girls he would never allow the girls to see that he preferred the boys, even if he did. Yet in a way I suppose I was glad my father was not as interested in me as he was in Connell. Connell had had many a beating because he had failed to please my father. I was never beaten because I neither pleased nor displeased.

I was suddenly looking at my home with a new clarity because I was wondering what Fenn would think of it.

My father was at home when we arrived and he and my stepmother came down to greet our guest. I saw the curl of my father’s lip as he studied Fenn, which meant that he did not think very highly of him.

My stepmother smiled a welcome. Even Fenn was startled by her. I tried to look at her afresh. I could not understand quite what that magnetic charm was. She was very beautiful, it was true, but it was not only beauty. There was a sheen about her; it was in everything she did, in her smile and her gestures.

“Welcome to Castle Paling,” she said. “It is good of you to go out of your way to look after my daughters on the road.”

Fenn stammered that it had been his pleasure and was by no means out of his way.

“It’s rarely that we see a Landor within these walls,” said my father. “The last one was my first wife. She would be your aunt, would she not?”

“That’s so,” Fenn replied.

He seemed to shrink before my father, and I felt that old protective instinct, which had amused my mother, rising within me.

I wondered whether my father was going to make sport with him, to trick him into betraying his enthusiasm for the trading company and then show his contempt for it.

My father shouted to one of the servants to prepare a room for our guest and to send another with wine that he might welcome him on his first visit to the castle.

The wine was brought. We drank it and we talked of the death of Captain Pennlyon and the sadness it had caused at Lyon Court.

“A great sailor, my father-in-law,” said my father. “One of the old buccaneers. I’d like to have as many golden crowns as Spaniards he has put to the sword.”

“It was a cruel world in those days,” said Fenn.

“And has it changed? Why, young sir, whether men go in trade or war ’tis all the same. Booty is what they are after and blood and booty go together.”

“We aim to trade through peace.”

My father was laughing to himself. “Aye, ’tis a noble sentiment.”

I was glad when the servants came down to tell us that the room was ready.

“I have ordered that it shall be one of our best rooms,” said my father. “Some of the serving-women will tell you it’s haunted but that will not affect you, I know.”

Fenn laughed. “I’ll swear you have ghosts and to spare in a castle such as this.”

“Ghosts!” said my father. “On the stairways, in the corridors. I’ll tell you, you would be hard pressed to find a room that couldn’t boast of one. This is a castle of legends, sir. A haunted castle. Dark deeds have been done here and some say they leave their mark.”

“I promise you, sir, I fear them not.”

“I knew you would have a bold spirit. Your profession demands it. Though they tell me that sailors are the most superstitious men on the Earth. You tell me, is that true?”

“When they go to sea it is. There are so many evil things that can befall a ship. But those sailors who fear that which is not natural at sea, are bold on land.”

“We are on land but the sea laps at our walls and it would sometimes seem that we are on neither one nor the other. Come, you will wish to go to your room. ’Tis but an hour or so to supper.”

He signed to the serving-girl to show him where he would sleep.

I knew he was being taken to the Red Room.

Supper was a merry meal. My father was in good spirits. My stepmother decided to charm him. She did a little, I noticed with some dismay. She sang a song—in Spanish, I suppose it was. I could not understand the words but it throbbed with tenderness. My father watched her as she sang as though he were bewitched. In fact I think every man present was. I wondered, as I had on many other occasions, what she was thinking.

That night I could not sleep. I kept thinking about Fenn and my grandmother’s hints that I might marry him. I knew that I wanted to. I realized that I loved Fenn and I was the sort of person who would not change. It seemed to me like a pattern. My mother and her Fennimore, both marrying other people to make the way clear for their children.

I was seeing everything with that new clarity which had come to me through the ride from Lyon Court. My home was indeed a strange one. My father accused by his mother-in-law of causing the death of his first wife; his second wife dying mysteriously in her bed; and his third wife a witch.

And the castle—it was a haunted castle, haunted by spectres of the past. There were strange happenings at night. One awoke and was aware of things going on; one had grown accustomed to them and accepted them without asking what they meant. The servants were often uneasy; they were frightened of my father, and those in the Seaward Tower were different from those who attended to our needs in the castle. There were strange comings and goings. I had grown up with these things and had accepted them … until now.

Strangest of all was my stepmother—that foreign woman who spoke so little, who could enchant all men at will—be they young or old; there were strange rumours about her. I knew my own mother had saved her from the sea on Hallowe’en, which, said my practical grandmother, was why the rumour had started.

Perhaps that was so, but it was brought home afresh to me that my mother had been dead but three months when he had married her.

“Tamsyn, are you awake?”

It was Senara. We had continued to share a room. We could have had one each for there were plenty in the castle, but Senara was against it. She liked the room, she said; and she might want to talk in the night. It was like many other rooms in the castle, big and lofty, but it did have one unique feature. One of my ancestors had put in what was called a ruelle. He had lived in France and liked the idea. It was a sort of alcove which was curtained off by a heavy red curtain. Senara had always been fond of hiding behind it and springing out on me in the hope of frightening me.

Now I said: “Yes, I’m awake.”

“You’re thinking about him.” She said it accusingly.

“Whom do you mean?” I asked, knowing full well.

“Fenn Landor.”

“Well, he is our guest.”

“You think he is a special guest, don’t you?”

“The guest of the moment should always be a special guest.”

“Don’t elude me, Tamsyn. You know what I mean. You like him too much.”

“I just like him.”

“Too much,” she insisted.

I was silent.

She got off her pallet and knelt by mine.

“Tamsyn,” she said very seriously, “no one is going to take you away from me. No one.”

“No one shall,” I said. “You and I will always be as sisters.”

“I would hate anyone you liked more than you liked me.”

I thought: She is very young. She’ll grow up.

“Go back to bed, Senara. You’ll catch cold.”

“Remember it,” she said.

The next day when I was showing Fenn round the castle we came to the burial ground near the old Norman chapel. I showed him my mother’s grave in that spot with the other two so that they were a little apart.

“Why,” he said, “that is my aunt’s grave.” He went to it and knelt beside it. “My aunt and your mother. Who is the other?”

I said: “It was a sailor. He was drowned and washed up on our coast. We buried him here.”

“I wonder who he is,” said Fenn.

“I wish I knew. I dare say he has those to mourn for him.”

Fenn was sad and I knew that he was thinking of his father.

“There must be many sailors,” he said, “who are lying in graves unknown to their families.”

“Few are washed up on the shore.”

“No,” he said, “the ocean bed is the graveyard of many, I’ll swear.”

“Do you still think so much of your father?”

“It is six years since we lost him but he is as vivid in my mind as he ever was. You would understand if you had known him. He was a kind, good man in a world that is far from good and kind. That was what made him so outstanding. My mother says he was born before his time. He belonged to a different age, when men had become wiser and kinder because of it.”

“That’s a wonderful thing for a wife to say about her husband.”

“He was a wonderful husband.” He clenched his fists suddenly. “I know I shall find out one day what happened to him.”

“Isn’t it obvious? His ship must have been lost at sea.”

“I suppose you are right, but I have a feeling that some day I shall hear.”

“How wonderful if he came back to her. My grandfather was away for years—captured and made a slave and my grandmother never gave up hope. And he did come back. Poor Grandmother, she feels his loss sadly.”

He was very thoughtful and I longed to share his thoughts.

Then he said suddenly, “Tamsyn, would you do something if I asked you?”

“I am sure I shall. What is it?”

“You have planted rosemary on your mother’s grave.”

“She loved it and so did I and it’s for remembrance.”

“Will you plant a bush on his grave?”

“Of course.”

“An unknown sailor. Who knows where his family is? Plant the rosemary and it will be as though you plant it for my father. Will you do that for me, Tamsyn?”

“You may trust me to.”

He stood up and took my hands in his. Then he kissed me lightly on the forehead.

I was blissfully happy because that kiss while he stood close to my mother’s and the unknown sailor’s grave was a symbol. It was like plighting my troth. I knew that I loved Fenn. I was not sure whether he loved me but I thought he did.

Fenn left next day but not before I had planted my rosemary bush. I saw how pleased he was.

“I know you are the sort of girl who would keep her promises,” he told me.

Before he left he said that he wanted me to come and stay with his parents. He would arrange that they should soon invite me.

I waved farewell to him and then went right up to the ramparts so that I should see the last of him.

Senara came and stood beside me.

“You’re madly in love with him,” she accused me.

“I like him,” I admitted.

“You show it. You shouldn’t do that. You should be aloof; it is for him to fall madly in love with you. Now I suppose he will ask for your hand in marriage and then you will go away to that place of his and I shan’t see you any more.”

“What nonsense!”

“It’s not nonsense. I shall be left here and I don’t like it.”

“When I marry—if I do—you shall come and stay with me.”

“What’s the use of that? We’ve always been together. We’ve shared a room. You’ve been my sister ever since I could remember.”

She was pouting and sullen. Then her eyes were suddenly mischievous. “What if I made an image of him and stuck pins in it? Then he’d die because I’d pierce his heart. No one would know how he died … except me.”

“Senara, I hate to hear you talk like that. It’s all such nonsense.”

“People do die … cows die, sheep die … as well as people. No one knows what killed them. There is no sign at all … They just die. It’s the evil eye. What if I put it on your precious lover?”

“You couldn’t and you wouldn’t … even if he were my lover, which he is not. He is merely a good friend. And, Senara, I beg of you do not say such things. It is dangerous to talk so. People hear it and take it seriously. You mustn’t say it.”

She dodged back from me and put out her tongue. A favourite gesture of hers which was meant to irritate.

“You are no longer a child, Senara,” I said. “You must be sensible.”

She stood still, her arms folded, mocking me.

“I am sensible. They are always saying my mother is a witch. Well, I’m a witch too. Nobody knows where we came from, do they? How do I know, how do you know, who my father is?”

“Senara, you are talking dangerously. Your mother had the misfortune to be wrecked at sea. My mother saved her life. You were about to be born. It is all easy to understand.”

“Is it, Tamsyn? Is that what you really think?”

“Yes, it is,” I said firmly.

“You always believe what you want to. Everything is good and nice, according to you. Other people don’t always think so. And one thing, don’t imagine you are the only one who has a lover.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know?”

I very soon did know. It suddenly occurred to me that Senara had inherited that indefinable quality from her mother. In the days which followed she seemed to grow more beautiful; she was passing out of her childhood and she was of a type to mature early. Her body had become rounded, her long eyes languorous and full of mystery—so like her mother’s. When she danced with Dickon she was so lovely that it was impossible to take one’s eyes from her.

Dickon adored her. When he danced with her there was such happiness in his movements that it was a joy to watch them. He would sit and play the lute to her and sing songs of his own composing. They seemed all to be about the charms of a dark-eyed maiden, who tantalized him and tormented him while she enchanted him.

Enchantment! Bewitchment! These were words which occurred again and again in his song. She beguiled his senses; she had this elusive quality which he could not define.

One day in the music-room Maria discovered her daughter in the arms of Dickon, the music teacher. Senara told me about it afterwards. She was hysterical, half defiant, half fearful.

“Dickon always wants to make love to me,” she had said. “He has a passionate nature and so have I. You wouldn’t understand, Tamsyn. You are so calm and dull about these things. I love Dickon. He is beautiful, do you not think so? And the feeling he puts into his songs … and when we dance together, I seem to melt in his arms. I am ready to grant any request he might make of me. That’s how Dickon affects me, Tamsyn.”

“It sounds a very dangerous state of affairs,” I had replied with trepidation.

“Dangerous? Of course it’s dangerous. That’s why it’s exciting. When I am going for my lesson I make Merry curl my hair and I choose my ribbons very carefully to match my gown. Merry laughs. She knows.”

Merry was the maid who had been given us now that we were growing up. She worked for us personally, looked after our clothes, did our hair and was in fact a lady’s maid whom we shared. She was youngish—a little older than I was in fact, and she was in love with Jan Leward, one of the menservants who lived in the Seaward Tower. They were going to marry one day, she had confided in us, and she was very pleased with life because of this. Senara tricked her into giving confidences about the progress of her love-affair with Jan.

“Oh Senara, take care,” I had begged.

“That is something I prefer to leave to others,” she had retorted. “Care! It’s dull, and I hate dull things. No, I shall never take care. I shall be bold and reckless. That is how I intend to live my life. I think Dickon is handsome. More so than your Fenn Landor and I tell you this, Tamsyn, you are not going to be the only one with a lover.”

“What other people have has nothing to do with loving.”

“So wise,” she had mocked me. Then came this indiscretion. She told me about it. “The door of the music-room opened and my mother stood there. We were seated at the table. My lute lay on it and Dickon had his arms about me. He was kissing me and suddenly we knew that we were not alone. You know how silently my mother comes into a room. She stood there and looked at us. She said nothing. It would have been better if she had. Dickon started to tremble. You know how they can all be so afraid of her. Then she walked to the table. We both stood up. Dickon’s face was scarlet. He has such beautiful fair skin. Mine doesn’t change colour like that. But I was as frightened as he was. She picked up my lute and gave it to me. ‘Play,’ she said. ‘Play a love song, a sad one, for love songs are often sad.’ I took the lute and she said ‘Play “My love has gone and forever more I mourn”.’ I did and she sat there listening. Then she looked at Dickon and said; ‘How well have you taught my daughter?’ He stammered that he had done his best and that I was an apt pupil. She sat there for a while. Then she got up and went out. We don’t know what will happen but Dickon is afraid.”

We soon discovered what had happened.

Dickon did not appear in the music-room again. He had been sent away.

Senara was violently angry and quietly sad in turns. She used to cry at night and talked constantly about Dickon. I had thought her feeling for him superficial, but this did not seem to be so, for as time went on she continued to remember him and speak of him with bitter and sorrowing regret.

Senara changed after that incident. She seemed always to be trying to score over me. I think there was a streak of envy in her nature and particularly where I was concerned. I used to remind myself that in the early days of her life she had been the waif about whom so little was known. Her very name betrayed that. The admiration she had had from Dickon had softened her considerably and when it was snatched from her she had really suffered.

At first she had confided more in Merry than in me. She insisted that I had my Fenn Landor and she spoke of him as though we were betrothed. I must confess I did not stop her as I should. I was, I suppose, so enamoured of the idea of being betrothed to Fenn that I couldn’t resist deluding myself into thinking that it was so.

Then my stepmother—no doubt influenced by the Dickon affair—said that now we were all growing up there should be more entertaining at the castle. She would invite the best of the neighbouring families. Some of them had eligible young men who might be interested in us, and there was Connell also to be considered.

My father evidently agreed. He seemed always to agree with my stepmother. At least I never saw any conflict between them. When I compared them with my late grandfather and grandmother I thought how different their relationship was and that there was something more normal in the bickering of my grandparents than in the quietness I observed between my parents—my father being the man he was. I sensed that when they were alone they were far from quiet; and sometimes the thought came into my mind that my stepmother was indeed a witch and even my father was in thrall to her.

“The young man who brought you from your grandmother’s,” she said, “was very charming. I believe he has a sister. Perhaps we should invite them both to stay here.”

I was delighted. I said I thought they would be pleased to come.

“We shall see,” said my stepmother.

The seamstress was working hard making new gowns for us. When we entered into a new reign fashions always seemed to change. In the country as we were, we were always a year or so behind but even so we were now getting what was called the short Dutch waist and the full farthingale. We had cartoose collars and tight sleeves under long sleeves hanging from the elbow. We had dresses with divided skirts to show barred petticoats usually much finer than the gown itself. Ruffs had disappeared—for which I was thankful—and in their place we had stand up collars. The sewing-room was littered with cloth of all kinds, taffeta and damask, some silk and velvet and a mixture of silk and some other thicker material called crash and mockado which was mock velvet.

The sewing-room was a symbol of the fact that there were three marriageable young people in the castle and weddings were to be expected. It was strange how gay that made everyone feel.

Merry was no ordinary maid, for we were both fond of her and she was very pretty too and full of life. She talked a great deal—particularly to Senara—of Jan her lover and how one day they were going to get married. There was great excitement when she was wearing a ring. It looked like gold—a thick band.

“It be my token ring from Jan,” Merry told us solemnly.

Alas, her triumph was short lived, for it seemed Jan had stolen the ring. He had taken it from my father’s possessions and when it was discovered there was a great upheaval in the castle.

Merry quickly lost her token ring and wept for it, but even more bitterly did she weep when Jan received his punishment. We three shut ourselves away so that we could hear nothing of it, but quite a number of the servants gathered in the Seaward courtyard. Jan was tied to the whipping-post and given ten lashes.

“’Twill be the shame of his life,” sobbed Merry. “He be such a proud man. He only took to give to me.”

Senara’s eyes flashed with anger. “A curse on those who are beating Jan,” she cried. “May their arms rot and …”

I silenced her. “Whoever lifts the whip against him does so on orders,” I said. “And, Senara, please do not say such things.”

“I mean them,” she cried.

I knew who had given the order for punishment. It was my father.

We comforted Merry as best we could. Senara prepared an ointment for she was interested in such things, and we sent it over for Jan’s back.

“It will let him know that we are thinking of him,” said Senara, “as well as help to cure him.”

The atmosphere of the castle had changed. An air of melancholy had descended on us.

There was a letter from my grandmother.

She was glad to hear that Fenn and his sister were coming to stay with us.

I’m afraid this could never have happened while his grandmother was alive (she wrote). Now, poor soul, she is at rest and perhaps the feud between the two families will be over. I could understand, of course, her bitter sorrow when her daughter died and some people must lay the blame for their sorrow on other shoulders. It’s a great mistake. You will see Fenn again and I am sure you will enjoy his company. I believe his sister Melanie is a charming girl.

My dearest Tamsyn, how I should love to join you, but I fear the journey would be too much for me. Perhaps later you would come to me. I have not been very well. Edwina is often here. I shall look forward to your being here soon, my dear child. Let me know about Fenn’s visit.

It was high summer when they came—Fenn, his sister Melanie, his mother and their servants. They were to stay for a week and my stepmother had made great preparations for them. She had evidently taken a fancy to the family; I was worldly enough to know that it was because they were rich. They had large estates about Trystan Priory and although in the beginning they had lost money in the trading venture there were rumours that that was now proving very successful.

When they arrived a warm welcome was given them. My stepmother was gracious and charming and my father too received them with a show of pleasure. Fenn looked pleased to be back and I was thrilled to see that when his eyes alighted on me they showed clearly his pleasure. There was something open and candid about him; he was the sort of man who would never be able to hide his feelings even if he wanted to. His sister Melanie was rather like him in appearance; she was quiet and gentle in manners; and their mother was a very gracious lady. I couldn’t help thinking that Trystan Priory must be a very pleasant, comfortable household.

Fenn was put into the Red Room once more; and Melanie and her mother shared a room close by.

Supper that night was taken in one of the smaller rooms—so that we could talk together, said my stepmother, before other guests arrived. So there were my father, my stepmother, Fenn, his sister and mother, and Connell, Senara and myself. Conversation was of the estates and of the trading company of which Fenn spoke with such enthusiasm and how pleasant it was for families like ours to get to know each other.