It was as before—but there was this difference. Perhaps I should have known. But like so many significant things in life it only occurred to me later.

Maria stayed with us. Her status in the household had changed, and she behaved like a guest. She joined us at meals and her daughter was cared for in our nursery with our own children.

I was not sure how this had come about. Colum and I rarely ate alone but when we did it was in the room which I called the winter parlour—after the one at Lyon Court—the small intimate kind of room which people were beginning to use instead of the great halls where all the household sat together.

There were occasions when we dined in the hall. If there were visitors—which there were quite frequently—and on special occasions—then it was natural that Maria should be there. What was strange was that when we dined in the winter parlour she should join us. I could not understand why Colum accepted this.

I guessed that in a way either his conscience worried him—although that was difficult to believe—or that she was threatening him in some way. It was hard to imagine his allowing anyone to threaten him, but she had accused him of being a murderer. He had been responsible for the death of her husband—for I must believe she was travelling with her husband—and perhaps even he would feel he should make some amends.

Colum kept me with him a great deal after that encounter. He seemed determined to make me accept him for what he was. He told me, soon after that scene, that if I attempted to leave him, he would come to Lyon Court and get me, no matter if he had to kill my father in the attempt.

He said: “Don’t provoke me, wife. Never provoke me. You would find my anger terrible. I would stop at nothing to gain satisfaction. Is that something you have learned yet?”

“I begin to,” I said.

“Then be a good wife. Deny me nothing and you will be cared for. I want more children. Give them to me.”

“That is hardly in my hands.”

“You gave me Connell that first night. That was because you and I were made for one another. You responded.”

“How could I, drugged as I was?”

“Nevertheless you did. That was when I knew that I’d make you my wife.”

“I thought it had something to do with my dowry.”

“That came after. But that first night I knew. And look how soon we got ourselves our daughter. But all this time you have been barren. Why?”

“That question must be answered by a higher power.”

“Not so. You have slipped away from me. You have become critical of me. I will not have that. Take care, wife.”

“Take care of what?”

“That you continue to please me.”

What did he mean? I wondered about slipping away. Had I during that first year or so of marriage loved him not only with this physical passion of which I was so acutely aware, or had my feelings for him gone deeper than that? Had I built up a false image? Had I seen him as the man I wanted him to be? I could do that no longer.

And he allowed Maria to join us. Those meals à trois were not easy. Colum and I talked in rather a forced fashion; she appeared to watch us thoughtfully and contributed very little to the conversation.

I had a feeling that this state of affairs could not continue. We could not go on day after day sitting thus at table together. Something was going to happen. Then suddenly I was aware.

I caught his gaze fixed on her and he looked just as he had looked at me on the memorable night when I had first seen him at The Traveller’s Rest.

I felt a wild twinge of alarm.

I was deeply aware of them. They were playing a kind of game together. She was haughty, aloof, scornful of him; and he was maddened by her attitude. It was something of a repetition of what had happened between him and me.

There was an occasion when she stayed in her room and sent one of the maids down to say she was indisposed, for all the world as though she was the mistress of the house. We ate alone on that night. Colum was moody, speaking scarcely a word.

She had taken one of the horses from the stables and made it her own. I had supplied her with riding clothes; I had set the seamstress to make garments for her. That was in the beginning when I was sorry for her and wanted to make up for the wrong which had been done to her by my husband.

She never hesitated to take these things. She herself designed her clothes and was with the seamstress while she was working. When they were completed they were beautiful in an exotic way. She walked gracefully and held herself so proudly that she looked like a queen. Her beauty seemed to intensify with the passing of the months. She loved the sun and on hot days rode off and sometimes did not come back all day.

Colum continued to watch her broodingly; and he had ceased to mention her to me.

When we entertained she joined the company. She would seat herself at the table on the dais and even though Colum and I were in the centre she would have given the impression to a stranger that she was the mistress of the house, not I.

There was often something jaunty about her manner; it was as though she were secretly amused. One of the neighbouring squires had fallen in love with her and implored her to marry him. She would not give him a definite answer and consequently he made pretence after pretence to visit us.

“Young Madden is here again,” Colum would say. “Poor lovesick fool! Does he think she will have him?”

Once I said: “Colum, how long will she stay here?”

He turned on me angrily. “I thought it was your pleasure that she stayed. Was it not you who were so eager to make up for my cruelty?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t belong here, does she?”

“Who shall say who belongs where? Once you did not belong, now you do.”

“Surely that is different. I am your wife.”

“Remember it,” he said rather sourly.

That was a strange long summer. The heat was intense. The sea was as calm as a lake and from the turret window looked like a sheet of silk shot with blue and grey light; its murmur was gentle as it washed the walls of the castle. I would often look out at the sharp teeth of the Devil protruding above the water, and the dark smudge of battered vessels there. I wondered what Maria thought when she looked out and saw the remains of the Santa Maria. Did she think of her husband who was lost to her forever? One could never tell; she glided about the castle with that aloof look in her eyes and no one could know what she was thinking.

Colum was different. He talked often about another child. What was wrong with me? Why did I not conceive? He had changed towards me. I was sensitive enough to realize that. There was a certain lack of spontaneity in his passion. I thought I knew why.

I wished that my mother would visit us. In the months of June I wrote and asked her to come. I told her how I missed her and how long it seemed since we had been together.

There must have been a plea in my letter for she wrote immediately and said she was making plans to leave. I felt relieved then. I had decided that I must confide in her. I knew that was the last thing Colum wanted but I did not care. I felt I must talk to someone. But she did not come. Damask had a fever and she neither dared leave her nor bring her.

“When she is well, we will come, my dear Linnet,” she wrote. She told me what was happening at home. My father had returned from his second voyage and this time he had been equally successful as far as trading was concerned and had achieved this without the loss of ships. The Landors had visited them and they had talked most of the time about the success of the venture.

“Fennimore’s little boy is the pride of his life,” she wrote. “He is called Fenn and must be a month or so older than our own little Tamsyn.”

Her letter brought back so clearly to me the great hall in Lyon Court and my father at the head of the table talking of his adventures and my mother, watching him and now and then bickering with him.