“I should not admire him for that.”

“A handsome fellow, I grant you. But you’ve got a man and I’m proud of you.”

Yes, there was no doubt that my father liked my husband. They rode together and talked a great deal.

My mother too seemed happy, and Damask’s infatuation for Colum continued. He was amused by the child but he took little notice of her, which she did not seem to mind as long as she could sit near and watch him.

It was like the old Christmases I remembered at Lyon Court. I suppose I had made it so. All the servants and their families came into the great hall and were given wine and Christmas cake; they sang carols and the mummers came and performed.

I did talk to my mother when we were alone.

I mentioned the fact that I had discovered Colum had been married before. “His wife was Melanie Landor,” I said. “Fennimore’s sister. Did you know?”

“We did discover it after the wedding,” said my mother. “What a time that was! First the secret ceremony and then the other. It was all rather hurried, as it had to be.”

“When did you realize that Colum’s first wife was Melanie Landor?”

“It was after your wedding when you had left for Castle Paling with Colum. The Landors were to visit us. Only Fennimore and his father came. Mistress Landor was taken ill. She admitted to me afterwards that she could not face us when she knew that our daughter had married her daughter’s husband.”

“It must have been a shock for her.”

“It was. How did you discover? But Colum told you, I suppose.”

“No, he did not. I found out through Jennet.”

“Trust Jennet!” said my mother half indulgently, half in exasperation.

“Yes, Jennet told me who she was. I was surprised.”

“And you mentioned it to Colum?”

Memories came back to me—the darkening room, the red bed with the shadows deepening and the ghost of Melanie lurking.

“I did. He was not very pleased.”

“He had not wished you to know?”

“I am not sure of that. He had simply not mentioned it. It was over, she was dead and he was married to me now. Tell me what Mistress Landor said when she knew I had married Colum.”

“Remember that she lost her beloved daughter. She must have been nearly demented when it happened. She did not wish her daughter to have any more children. She was certain that if she did she would kill herself. Of course she blames Colum. She becomes hysterical over her daughter’s death. We must understand that, Linnet.”

“She told me that her daughter had been murdered. It was a great shock when I discovered who she was … for that reason.”

“You must remember she is a mother. That is why she has to blame someone for her daughter’s death. Her grief was assuaged by her anger against her daughter’s husband. Sometimes when grief like that sweeps over you anger is an outlet for it.”

“I understand. And the Landors have never had any communication with Castle Paling since her death.”

“Perhaps in time they will come to see reason. In any case, my dearest, you are happy. You have a beautiful son and a husband who loves you. And it has all happened so quickly. Just over a year ago that we … No matter. I rejoice. May God bless you, my darling, and may you always be as happy as you are now.”

She wanted to see the castle. I told her about Ysella and Nonna. “Ysella’s Tower is locked up. It is used as a kind of storage place. Seaward is where certain of the servants live.”

“A whole tower to themselves?” said my mother.

“There is so much space in a castle, Mother.”

“I remember the Abbey where I spent my childhood. It is very beautiful here, and so interesting. I like to think of my little girl as the châtelaine of a great castle.”

When I was showing her the rooms in the castle we came to the Red Room.

It was the first time I had been in it since that night when Colum had found me there. I noticed that there was a layer of dust on the planked hutch and the bedposts.

My mother noticed it too and raised her eyebrows. As she grew older she had become a meticulous housewife.

“The servants don’t like to come in here alone,” I said.

“The haunted room, is it? Now I see it has that air. What legend is there attached to this place?”

I said: “It was the room in which Colum’s first wife died.”

“Ah,” said my mother, “if I were you I would take down those red hangings and the bed curtains and put in another colour. Change it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“The old legends that should be preserved are happy ones,” said my mother.

“I will consider it,” I said. And I thought at the time: She is right in a way but changing the curtains and putting in new furniture would not alter the fact that within these four walls Melanie had lived, suffered and died.

After the New Year my parents went back to Lyon Court. I missed them very much, but I was happy watching my child grow bigger every day. He flourished and our delight in him was greater than ever. But oddly enough I could not cast out that morbid fascination which the Red Room had for me, and I still went there. I did think of changing the curtains. I even went so far as taking my little seamstress along to discuss the matter with her.

I noticed how reluctant she was and I could see that she was afraid of the task.

At last she admitted that she thought it might bring bad luck.

“Nonsense,” I said. “Why should it?”

“It might be, Madam, that this is how she wished it to stay.”

Then I knew that I should really do as my mother said. I must change the room entirely so that when people entered it they would not think of poor dead Melanie.

But I didn’t. I found I had no heart for the task. I assured myself that to do so was to give way to superstition. But that was not quite true.

Somewhere deep down in my mind was the thought that Melanie had left something of herself behind and that one day I might need her help.

I will admit it was a thought which flashed in and out of my head and was dismissed immediately, but it came back. It was there in the Red Room; and on dark nights I thought I could hear it in the murmur of the wind on the sea.

What if he should tire of you as he tired of Melanie? Tire of me? The mother of his son … and the other children we should have. For we should have them. He was sure of that and so was I.

There was a great deal I had to discover about my husband. I knew so little of him. That was doubtless why I was so fascinated by him.

Ruthless I knew he was. How ruthless I had to discover. Brutal he could be. How brutal? I was safe while I pleased him. Had Melanie ever been? I could picture his bringing home his bride. I could see the wedding feast at Trystan Priory and the gentle girl who had been brought up in that kindly mansion and knew nothing of the harsh reality of life.

Had he been tender towards her once? I could picture his indifference to her suffering. I remembered him as he had been in the inn when there had been nothing but lust in his eyes for me.

He excited me; he fascinated me; but I knew I did not understand him; and I knew too that I could only rely on his goodness to me as long as I continued to please him.

I would keep the Red Room as it was and I would attempt to learn more of my husband. I must know where he went when he was not at the castle. I must share his life.

I would find out. Oddly enough—and how right this premonition was to prove—the notion filled me with a certain apprehension.

Spring had come and I was once more expecting a child. I was delighted but not more so than Colum.

“Did I not tell you that you would have a quiverful? Give me another boy. When we have half a dozen of them we’ll think about a girl or two.”

I retorted: “I do not propose to spend my life in a continual state of pregnancy.”

“Do you not?” he retorted. “I thought that was a wifely duty.”