He nodded.
“And you have sold yourself to these Spanish dogs.” I jeered inwardly at myself for talking like Jake Pennlyon.
“There is much I could tell you,” he said. “Perhaps then you would not despise me so much.”
“I shall always despise you. You took me from my home, you submitted me to this, you came to us, accepted our hospitality and lied, that is something I shall never forget.”
“The Virgin will plead for me,” he said.
“Her prayers would have no effect on me,” I retorted grimly.
Later I said to him, “You will never convert me. I was never eager to take one side against another, but the more you force me, the more I shall turn away. Do you think I can ever forget the reign of her whom they called Bloody Mary? Let me tell you this, John Gregory: My grandfather lost his life because he sheltered a friend—a priest like you, of your faith, for that was my grandfather’s faith. My mother’s stepfather was burned at Smithfield because books concerning the Reformed Faith were found in his house. Someone informed on him, as my grandfather was informed against. And all this in the name of religion. Does it surprise you that I want none of it?”
He spoke vehemently: “No, it does not surprise me. But you should listen. You should prepare yourself lest danger should come.”
“Then I am preparing to save my body, not my soul.”
“There is no reason why you should not save both.”
We talked a great deal and I wondered about him; and during the weeks that followed my attitude toward this man began to change. Everything was changing. It was almost as though a mist were clearing before my eyes.
Days passed and became weeks. I surprised myself. I was becoming happy in this alien land. I understood the serenity of Honey, her preoccupation with Edwina. Jennet was growing near her time. She would sit with us sometimes in the Spanish garden which Don Felipe had had made by a gardener come from Spain. During the hot days there was a sense of peace in the gardens. We would sew together, for fine linens and lace had appeared in the sewing room; and although I hated to take these things for myself I would accept anything for my child.
Sometimes the incongruity of it all came over me; and I thought of my mother in her gardens or visiting my grandmother. They would talk of us. My poor mother would be sad, for she had lost both her girls. Did they think of us as dead now? Then I was mournful, for she had suffered much and loved us both dearly—particularly me, her own daughter.
But that was far away, like another life; and here we were in the Spanish garden, my baby stirring within me, reminding me that each day it grew and that the happy moment when I should hold it in my arms was coming nearer.
Jennet was complacent—very large, completely undisturbed, accepting life as I supposed I never would. Now that she had rid herself of the burden of her secret, she seemed to have cast off her cares. She had a habit of humming to herself, which I found mildly irritating because they were the tunes which I remembered from home.
As we sat in the shade out of the sun, which was warmer than ours at home, Honey was playing with her baby, Jennet was humming over her sewing and I sat there stitching. Suddenly I began to laugh. It was so incongruous—three women—one a mother and two soon to be—who had gone through violent adventures and were now serene.
Honey looked at me and smiled. This laughter did not frighten her. It was not hysteria. There was an element of happiness in it. We had come to terms with life.
I loved Honey’s child; she was small and delicately made; I doubted she would be as beautiful as her mother; at this time her eyes were china blue, her skin delicate. I liked to have her on my own and I would take her to the Spanish garden and rock her gently. She would watch me with great wondering eyes. I believed she knew me. She was very good with me. I used to sing to her songs that my mother used to sing to me. “The King’s Hunt’s Up” and “Greensleeves,” which were said to have been composed by our great King Henry himself.
One day I was seated in the trellised arbor in the Spanish garden rocking the baby when I was aware of being watched.
I looked up and Don Felipe was standing a few yards from me.
I flushed hotly; he continued to regard me in the detached manner to which I was accustomed. I looked down at the baby, pretending to ignore him; but he continued to stand there. The baby began to whimper as though she were aware of some alien presence.
I murmured: “Hushaby, ’Wina. You are safe. Catharine is here, darling.”
When I looked up he had gone. I had not known that he was at the Hacienda because I had heard that he had gone to another part of the island.
I was always disturbed when he was in the house. It was not that he forced his presence on me, but I was aware of him. The household changed when he was there. The servants went about their duties with renewed vigor; there was a sense of tension everywhere.
I had a fright in that night, for as I lay in my bed I heard steps in the corridor, slow, stealthy steps. I started up in bed and listened. Slowly they came nearer and nearer. They paused outside my door.
I thought: He is coming to me, and I remembered how he had stood in the garden watching me.
My heart was beating so wildly that I thought it would choke me. Instinct made me lie back and feign sleep.
Through half-closed eyes I saw the candlelight; I saw the shadow on the wall.
It was his shadow.
I lay very still, my eyes shut. He was at the bedside, the candle wavering slightly in his hand. Keeping my lips lowered and pretending to be in a deep sleep, I waited for what would happen next.
I knew that he was at the bedside watching me.
It seemed a long time that he stood there; then the candlelight disappeared; I heard my door close gently. I dared not open my eyes for some time because I was afraid that he was in the room; but when I heard his footsteps slowly receding, I looked and saw that I was alone.
Jennet’s time had come. The midwife came to the Hacienda and Jennet’s labor, unlike Honey’s, was brief; a few hours after her pains started we heard the lusty bawling of the child.
It was a boy and I’ll swear that from the first it had a look of Jake Pennlyon.
I said to Honey: “Shall we ever escape from the man? Now there will be Jennet’s bastard to remind us.”
I thought I should dislike the child, but how could I do that? In the first weeks he was bigger than Edwina. He showed his temperament too. I had never believed a child could bawl so lustily for what he wanted.
Jennet was overcome with pride. He was not only her baby; he was Captain Pennlyon’s too. She was sure there never had been such a child.
“That’s what all mothers think,” I said.
“’Tis so, Mistress, but this be true. Only a man like that could make a baby like this ’un.”
Each day he grew more like his father.
Jake Pennlyon would indeed be with us forever.
“As soon as my child is born,” I said to Honey, “there will be no excuse for keeping us here. We shall go home. I shall go back to the Abbey. I long to be with my mother. There is so much I want to say to her. Before, I was so ignorant of everything. I often think of her life with my father. Children never know their parents, I suppose; but because of what has happened to me and those violent adventures that she has endured we shall be closer than ever when we meet.”
I could see in Honey’s eyes that she too longed for home.
We talked as we sat in the gardens of the old days at the Abbey and how my grandmother used to come over with her basket laden with ointments and goodies and flowers; and how she used to talk of her twin sons, who came with her sometimes.
And when we spoke of the old days Honey began to confide in me.
“I was always jealous of you, Catharine,” she said. “What I wanted always came to you.”
“You jealous of me! But you were the beauty.”
“I was the daughter of a serving girl and the man who despoiled the Abbey. My great-grandmot
her was a witch.”
“But you did very well, Honey. After all, you married a rich man who doted on you. You were happy then.”
“I was always happy in my fashion. It was a makeshift sort of way. I was the adopted daughter, not received by the master of the house…”
“But your beauty freed you from that. Edward Ennis would have been Lord Calperton and you a lady of high rank.”
“I took Edward because he was a good match.”
“I should think he was. Mother was delighted.”
“Yes, everyone was delighted. The orphan had climbed out of her poverty; she had made a good match, she had the kindest and most tolerant of husbands. Is that being happy, Catharine?”
“If you loved him.”
“I came to love him. He was so kind and good. I had affection for him. He was the best I could hope for.”
“What are you telling me, Honey?”
“That I loved … even as you loved, but he was not for me. I made my plans. But he did not love me. He loved someone else. That was apparent for a long time before he or she realized it. I saw it and I hated you, Catharine, as I had never in my childish jealousy hated you before.”
“You hated me?”
“Yes, I did. Our mother loved you as she could never love me. You were her own child. And Carey loved you. He always looked for you. He teased you, he bullied you, you used to fight together … but he always looked for you; he was only gay and happy when you were there. I knew. I used to cry at night.”
“You loved Carey?”
“Of course I loved Carey. Who could help loving Carey?”
“Oh, Honey,” I said. “You too.”
We were silent thinking of him—Carey, beloved Carey, who was to have been my very own. But I lost him and Honey lost him.
“Our love was doomed,” I said. “There is no reason why yours should have been.”
She laughed. “Because the loved one is denied that does not mean that anyone else will do.”
“But he was fond of you.”
“As a sister. And I knew that he loved you. So I accepted Edward. It was only after we married that I knew the truth.”
I turned away from her. I looked at the dazzling sky, at the palm trees on the horizon; and I thought of the tragic twists and turns in our lives which had led us to this moment.
We had come closer through this confession. Once we had both loved and lost Carey.
Jennet’s baby, like Honey’s Edwina, was baptized in the Catholic ritual. Honey had been a Catholic before she had left England and Jennet was quite ready to adopt any religion that she was asked to. Alfonso had started her on the road; John Gregory had prodded her along. I wondered what Jake Pennlyon would say if he knew his son—bastard albeit—was being baptized in the Catholic Faith; and the thought gave me a certain pleasure.
Jennet called him Jack, which was as near to his father as she dared go, and he quickly became known as Jacko.
Our lives were now dominated by the two children; and then another came into them.
It was I who discovered Carlos. Poor little Carlos, he was enough to wring any woman’s heart, the more so because there was something jaunty about him, something gay and adventurous.
I had been thinking more of Don Felipe than I cared to admit. He was away a great deal even if he only went to La Laguna. When he was in the house I would take great pains to avoid him; but I liked to watch him when he was unaware of me. Sometimes I would see him from my window and stand in the shadows looking out. Often he would glance up so that I felt he was aware of me there.
I wondered a great deal about his relationship with Isabella. She was his wife. Did he visit her often? Of what did they speak when he did? Was she aware of my presence at the Hacienda? And if so, what did she think of that? Did she know I was to bear her husband’s child?
I often walked past the Casa Azul; I would look through the wrought-iron gate onto the patio where the oleanders threw shadows on the cobbles and I would think of the beautiful face of the girl who played with dolls, and wonder what her life was like with her sour-faced duenna.
The house had become a kind of obsession with me. I found my footsteps leading me there every time I was alone. I would peer through the wrought-iron gate and wonder about Isabella and what happened when Don Felipe visited her.
One day the gate was open and I stepped inside. It was afternoon siesta hour. The house looked as though it were sleeping, as I supposed most of its inhabitants were. I enjoyed walking out at this time; I liked the stillness of everything, the silence, and in spite of the heat I came back refreshed in my mind. On my lonely walks I would think about my home and my mother and I would hope that she was not grieving too much for me. I was beginning to feel that the old life was over and I had to make a new one here, for I wondered whether Don Felipe would ever let us go.
It was because that strange man was dominating my thoughts that I had to come to this house. I wanted to know more about him. What had his life been in Spain before he came here? Had he in truth loved Isabella passionately? This must have been so since he had gone to such lengths to be revenged. Yet that could be due to his pride.
The stillness in the patio enveloped me. I looked up at the balcony on which I had seen Isabella. The doors were shut; there was no sign of life. I went quietly around to the side of the house; there was a pergola shady and made cool because the plants were trained over the trelliswork. I was facing a gate—wrought iron like that other—and beyond this lay a patch of land and a small hutlike dwelling.
As I stood looking through this gate a child emerged from the house; I judged him to be about two years old; he was dirty and barefooted, and he was dressed in a shapeless garment which came to his knees. He was rubbing his eye with his fist and he was obviously in distress because every few seconds a sob shook his body.
I had become passionately interested in children and his misery touched me deeply and made me want to alleviate it if possible.
He saw me suddenly and stopped; he stared at me and I thought for a moment he was going to run. I called out to him: “Good day, little boy.” He looked bewildered and I repeated my greeting in Spanish. My voice must have reassured him, for he came toward the gate and stood there. A pair of brown eyes were raised to me; his hair which was thick and straight was of a medium brown, his skin olive. He was an attractive little boy in spite of the grime; and the jauntiness was there in spite of his misery.
I smiled at him and knelt down so that our faces were on a level. I asked in rather stumbling Spanish what was wrong. His lips quivered and he showed me his arm. I was shocked by the bruises. He sensed my sympathy and held out the arm to me. I touched it gently with my lips and he smiled. His smile was dazzling, like but one other, and I knew at once who he was. He was Jake Pennlyon’s son, the result of the rape of Isabella.
With all my heart I hated Jake Pennlyon then, who spread his bastards around and never thought of what became of them. In this remote place there were two of them. And because I hated Jake Pennlyon my sympathy for this unfortunate child was intensified. But I should have been angry at the sight of any neglected child.
Through the bars I laid my lips on the bruises.
I heard a voice call: “Carlos! Carlos.” And a string of words I could not understand. Some patois, I supposed. The child turned and ran away. There was a bush in this patch of land; he scuttled behind it and hid. I backed from the gate as a woman came out. Her hair hung around her face; her mouth was cruel; her black eyes fierce; her flaccid breasts nearly fell out of her loose low-necked dress.
I heard her repeat the name “Carlos.” And I watched, wondering what I should do if she found the child, for I knew she was responsible for those bruises.
I wanted to open the gate and go through. I wanted to remonstrate with her, but I knew that would only make things worse for the child.
She seemed to content herself with shouting and after a while went back into the cottage. I waited for the child to com
e out, but he did not do so and I wondered whether he had fallen asleep in the bushes.
I went back thoughtfully to the Hacienda.
I talked to Honey. “I think I have seen Jake Pennlyon’s child,” I said, and told her about the boy Carlos.
“You shouldn’t have gone there. You were shown clearly that you weren’t wanted.”
“What a strange ménage this is, Honey,” I said. “What do you think happens in that house? Does Don Felipe go there often?”
“What is it to you?”
“Nothing, of course. Oh, Honey, when my child is born we shall go home.”
I could not get Carlos out of my mind. Those great brown eyes and the look in them when I had kissed his bruises, and the show of fear at the sound of that voice. I pictured his cowering before her blows. The next day I took with me a little rag doll which Honey had made for Edwina. The child had ignored it. She was no doubt too young to know what it was.
Strangely he was waiting at the gate and I knew that he had hoped that I would come again. When he saw me he grasped the bars and started jumping up and down. I knelt down and he held out his arm for me to kiss. The gesture brought tears into my eyes.
I gave him the rag doll. He seized it and laughed. He held it against him and then held it out to me. I realized it was for me to kiss.
“Carlos,” I said. He nodded.
“Catalina,” I said, the Spanish version of my name.
“Catalina,” he repeated.
Then he ran away looking around all the time, which I knew meant that he wanted me to stay. He came back with a flower—an oleander—which he gave to me. I took it and tucked it into my bodice. He laughed. We were friends.
I wanted to ask him questions, but the language barrier was difficult, and suddenly I heard the sound of voices and once again the little boy scuttled away and hid behind the bush. I drew back into the shelter of the oleanders and watched. Two children came out of the house, one of about eight I should say, the other about six. They ran to the bush and dragged Carlos out. I heard him scream. They took the rag doll and the elder of the boys started to pull it apart. Carlos screamed his rage; but he was powerless and the mutilated rag doll lay in pieces on the grass.
Lion Triumphant Page 20
