The Miracle at St. Bruno's (76 page)

“And the Queen will marry this man?”

“She will marry him and there is an end of her. On the day she marries Lord Robert she stands a self-confessed accomplice to murder. She will lose her kingdom, and who will take her crown? The Queen of France and Scotland, who is the true Queen of England. We shall support her claim. She will become our vassal. I command that you take instruction from John Gregory. I insist on this for your own welfare.”

“You cannot make a Catholic of me if I will not have it.”

“You foolish one,” he said quietly. “I tell you this to save you.”

Over the candles I looked into his face. He was moved in some way; and I knew that he feared for me.

After that began my daily sessions with John Gregory. At first I refused to listen to him. He said I must learn the Credo in Latin. He used to chant it again and again.

He said: “If you could not do that, you would be condemned as a heretic without further ado.”

I turned away from him, but I could not keep up my silence; I was not silent by nature.

“You are an Englishman, are you not?” I demanded.

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-grandmother 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.