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.
I could scarcely sleep that night; nor could Senara. We lay awake on our pallets talking about the evening.
“What mild people they are,” commented Senara. “They look as if nothing could arouse them. I have a good mind to set fire to their bedchamber. I daresay that girl Melanie would sit up in bed and say: ‘How strange. I believe the room is on fire,’ and then calmly walk out as though nothing had happened. Shall I set fire to it just to see if I’m right?”
“What a horrible idea! You do think of the strangest things.”
“One day I shall do them.”
“Please, Senara, you know I hate you to talk like that.”
“Why should I care what you hate? I hate to see you looking at that Fenn as though he’s Sir Lancelot or one of those knights who were irresistible to the ladies. You don’t care about that.”
“You have a very jealous nature.”
“Anyone who feels anything is jealous. It is only people like you and your silly Landors who don’t. They’re calm because they don’t feel anything. I think you’re all made of straw.”
I laughed at her, which infuriated her.
“Don’t think you are the only one who knows about love.” Her voice broke and there was a sob in it. “I wonder what is happening to Dickon now.”