Colum had chosen the godparents—friends of long standing, he said. Sir Roderick Raymont was one—a man I did not take to—and another was Lady Alice Warham, a handsome woman who came to the castle with a meek husband several years older than herself.
Lady Alice carried my son to the font; and the ceremony was performed beneath that vaulted roof with its Norman archway and its massive supporting pillars of stone.
Connell was good and uttered no protest but I felt a great desire to snatch him from the arms of the woman who held him. I did not know why this fierce jealousy came over me and I knew I would be glad when all the visitors had departed.
When the ceremony was over and the cake had been cut and the baby had been admired by all, I took him to his nursery and gloated over him and I felt I was the most blessed of women, to have married in such an unusual manner and to have found a husband who excited me more than any other person ever had, and to have my union with him crowned by this blessing of a child.
The guests lingered for a few days and it was during their stay that I made a discovery.
The great hall, which was rarely used when there were no visitors, was now the centre of our entertainments. All through the day there came from the kitchens the smell of roasting meats and many of the inhabitants of Seaward were pressed into service. “You see,” said Colum to me, “there are occasions when we need these servants.”
I asked him if he entertained frequently, since we had not done so during the first months of our marriage.
“I did not wish it then,” he said. “I wanted to have you all to myself. Moreover I thought it might be bad for the child.”
“Will these people think it strange that there was no celebrations of our wedding?”
“It has always been my way to let people think what they will,” he answered, “as long, that is, as it does not offend me.”
Then he talked of the boy and how he was much more advanced than other boys, how he believed that he would grow up into a fine Casvellyn and he could scarce wait to see it.
“As he grows older,” I said, “forget not that you will also do so.”
“And you, wife,” he reminded me.
Then he laughed and held me against him and I was very happy knowing him to be content with our marriage.
I think that was the last time I was entirely contented, for it was that night that I learned something which had not occurred to me before.
It was Lady Alice who began it, and I wondered after whether she did it purposely. I asked myself whether she sensed my complete abandonment to pleasure and, being envious of it, sought to destroy it.
We were at table. The venison was particularly delicious, I was thinking, done to a turn. The rich golden pastry of the pies was appetising and the company was merry. Colum, at the top of the table, flushed and excited, basked in the pride he felt for his son.
I was thinking to myself: May he always be as happy as he is now and may I, when Lady Alice said: “You have made your husband a very proud man.”
“It is a wonderful thing to have a child.”
“And so shortly married. You are indeed fortunate.”
Her eyes were enormous—great dark eyes, not quite as dark as Colum’s. I did not recognize the malice in them then.
“Colum, I know, is beside himself with joy. I am not surprised. When you remember the past disappointments …”
“Disappointments?” I said.
“Why yes, when he hoped and hoped … and it never happened. And then the second time he is fortunate immediately. It is not a year, is it, since your marriage and already that beautiful boy. One could almost say it was a happy release … although so tragic at the time.”
“You are referring to …” I began hesitantly.
“The first marriage. So tragic. But it has all turned out for the best, hasn’t it?”
I felt a shiver down my spine. His first marriage! He had not mentioned a marriage to me. What had happened? Where was his wife? She must be dead. Otherwise how could I be his wife? And why was it so tragic?
It seemed as though a chill had crept into the hall. I could see Lady Alice watching me intently. There was a glint of amusement in her eyes. She would realize of course that Colum had told me nothing of his previous marriage.
It was in the early hours of the morning before we retired. Together we looked into the nursery next to our own bedchamber, to assure ourselves that Connell was safe.
When we were in bed and the curtains drawn I said to Colum: “I learned tonight that you had been married before.”
“Did you not know it?”
“Why should I? You didn’t tell me.”
“Did you think a man would get to my age and not take a wife ere that?”
“It seemed strange that it was never mentioned.”
“The point never arose.”
“That seems strange to me.”
He drew me towards him. “Enough of others.”
But I could not rest. I said: “Colum, I felt so foolish. That woman mentioning it and I not to know.”
“Alice is a sly creature. She was jealous of you.”
“Why? She has a husband. Has she no children?”
He laughed loudly. “A husband. That poor stick! Much good he is to her. He is incapable of begetting children.”
“I’m sorry then.”
“Don’t waste pity on Alice. She is not at heart displeased. She has free range to select her bedfellows and he is complacent enough. As for children, I doubt she wants them. She would find them a nuisance and they might spoil her figure.”
“You know her … well?”
“Oh, very well.”
“You mean of course …”
“Exactly.”
There was a change in his manner. No tenderness now but a certain brusque impatience—the first since the last weeks before Connell’s birth. I sensed that he was irritated by my reference to his previous marriage.
“So she and you …”
“Oh come, wife. What is wrong with you? I’ve known many women. Did you think Castle Paling was some sort of monastery and I a monk?”
“I certainly did not think that … but our guests …”
“You must grow up. You must not be a silly little Linnet twittering in her cage and thinking that comprises the world. Some of us are made in a certain way and so must it be. I never fancied going lonely to bed.”
“So it was jealousy that made her …”
“I don’t know. She will doubtless have another lover now. What matters it? I grow tired of this.”
“I want to know about your wife, Colum.”
“Not now,” he said firmly.
But later I returned to the subject. The christening guests were gone and we were together in the nursery. We had dismissed the nurse so that we were alone with the child who lay in his cradle while Colum rocked it. The child watched his father all the time. It was an affecting scene to see this big man gently rocking the cradle and I was overcome with a deep emotion. I should have been completely happy, but for one thing. I knew he had had mistresses. That was to be expected, but I could not forget his first wife. I wanted to know something of that marriage, whether he had cared for her, how desolate had he been when she died. Why was he so reluctant to talk of her, or was he? Did he just feel an impatience to go back over something that was over.
“Colum,” I said, “I think I ought to know something about your previous marriage.”
He stopped rocking the cradle to stare at me, and I went on quickly: “It is disconcerting when people speak of it and I know nothing, and I suppose now we shall be entertaining more. To make a mystery of it …”
“It is no mystery,” he said. “I married, she died and that was the end of it. There was no mystery.”