Witch from the Sea

“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.”

“And his son … ?”

“He is at Trystan Priory with his mother.”

“You see them now and then?” I asked.

“Oh yes indeed.” I wanted to ask what Fennimore’s wife was like and if he was happy with her and did he ever think of me. Which was vanity, of course. It would be better for us both if we never thought of each other.

“And … his son? Are there any other children?”

“There is a girl besides young Fenn.”

“What is she called?”

My mother hesitated a moment and then she said: “Melanie.”

“I see. After Fennimore’s sister. They are happy, I suppose?”