I cannot endure this, I thought. I must get away. I must go home to my mother. I should have confided in her long ago. She would have advised me what I must do.

Maria’s beauty was unearthly. Satanic in its way and I could understand that Colum found it irresistible.

Sometimes I thought they were lovers. Then I was not so sure. Those nights when he was not with me, where was he? In the Red Room?

I kept thinking of the time when I had gone into that room and seen a vision of her. That must have been a warning. Why had I not told Edwina? Perhaps she could have advised me.

At night I would lie in my bed unable to sleep. When I did doze fitfully I would be beset by dreams—wild, fantastic dreams of visions. Maria was always in my dreams. And sometimes Colum. I saw them together writhing in an embrace. I would awaken clammy with sweat and fear and believe that there was someone in the room.

Tamsyn said: “You are not well, Mother. Shall I make a brew of the herbs Aunt Edwina gave us? I know how to.”

“What would you give me, Tamsyn?” I asked.

“The pimpernel brings laughter so I would give you that. But it is not the time of year for pimpernel. Poppy brings sleep. But there are no poppies either. But I have an ashen branch and if that is put beneath your pillow it will drive away evil spirits.”

“My dearest child, I am happy just to be with you.”

“I am your dearest child,” she said. “More dear to you than any of the others. I know it. It makes me happy. I will look after you always.”

“Bless you, my darling,” I said.

She was silent for a while. Then she said: “If I were older would you tell me what ails you?”

“Nothing ails me in truth.”

“I think something does. But I will look after you.”

“Then I shall soon be well,” I said; and I held her against me.

Maria came riding into the courtyard. I saw her from my window. She leaped from her horse and a groom hurried to take it away and feed and water it. She came into the castle and, I suspected, went to the Red Room. I sat at my window, wondering about her. Ten minutes later Colum came in.

I said to myself: He has gone to the Red Room.

I knew that he had.

What did he say to her there? There would be no need for words. They were lovers. I sensed it. It was two weeks since he had come to me. I felt a sick resentment against her for being more beautiful than I, more desirable to him.

I hated him; I feared him. There had always been something of these emotions in me. But in a way I yearned for him. It was inexplicable but it was true.

I wished I could have talked of this to my mother. I felt she would have understood. I wished I could talk to her of these sudden bouts of fear which possessed me. There was no one to whom I could talk. I seemed to hear my daughter’s voice. “If I were old enough you could tell me.”

Oh Tamsyn, I thought, if only I could!

They were making love in the Red Room. Afterwards they would talk. Would they talk of me? How did they talk of me? But why should they? Of what importance was I to them—only of course that if they wished for marriage I stood in their way.

He was tired of me. I knew that. He would no longer be indulgent as he once had. I would irritate him. Was this how Melanie had felt? He despised her. Did he bring his mistress of the moment into the castle. Was she of so little account to him that he did not care?

It could never be thus with me. Once he had wanted me so urgently that he had gone to great lengths to get me.

He would not come to me now. Perhaps never again. I had not given him the children he wanted. Only two and one a girl.

He wanted sons, many sons, lusty boys whom he could train in his hideous profession.

I went to bed. I lay there, the curtains drawn back. I could not bear to have them closed because if I did I would have strange fancies about what was happening in the room.

As I lay there I heard footsteps in the corridor … slow creeping footsteps. My blood seemed suddenly cold. They had paused outside my door.

I could hear the sound of the latch being lifted.

“Who’s there?” I called out in alarm.

There was no answer.

“Who is it?” I said.

I lay there waiting. Terror upon me. Who could it be? Whom did I fear? Maria? Colum?

For some seconds I lay there. Then I rose and went to the door. I opened it.

There was no one near.

The children were decorating the hall with holly and ivy.

I went out with them to bring in the yule log; they shrieked with happiness and I could feel myself being temporarily caught up in it. The damp soft air made my skin glow and I felt better than I had for some time.

Even the castle seemed less grim. The Christmas spirit had entered the house. And when it was over I promised myself I would go to my mother. I had made up my mind that I would tell her everything. I thought she might advise me not to return to the castle, and that is what I wanted.

I had always been careful with my journal—if such it could be called—because I dared not let Colum see it. The thought of his reading it had from the start embarrassed me; now I suppose it would be more than that. So when I had finished writing I always put it carefully where only I would know where to find it.

Since Maria had come back into the house I felt it was even more necessary than ever to keep my writings out of the way.

Because I kept it hidden I had always felt that I could write freely, which is the only way in which one can write a document such as this.

As we grew nearer to Christmas both Maria and Colum changed so much that I could, if I had not written down my feelings and what actually happened, have forgotten half of it and perhaps convinced myself that I had exaggerated. So I often looked back and read what I had written at the time it happened. It was amazing how it helped me to realize the truth of my situation. I somehow thought that it was because of this that I had felt this fear.

Now Colum was full of bonhomie and Christmas spirit. Maria had become human. She became less secretive. It seemed that the Christmas spirit of goodwill to all men had crept into the house.

“We shall not have your family here this Christmas,” said Colum, “nor go to them. We shall have to make up for that. We’ll have the mummers in to do a play. How’s that?”

The children were delighted. Tamsyn and Senara made a Christmas crib and while they were making it Tamsyn decided that they should do a Nativity play themselves and the grownups should be their audience.

Tamsyn was cleverer at her books than the others and she wrote the play which they would present in mime, for Connell declared that he would not learn words. Two or three of the local squires were being invited and as they had children these would be brought in to play their parts.

Senara was to be the Virgin at first but somehow she didn’t look the part, but she did make an enchanting shepherd boy who saw the star in the East and to her surprise Tamsyn was the Virgin. I was pleased because in spite of her somewhat retroussé nose and her wide mouth there was a purity about her and I set about devising her costume. This was where Maria showed herself in a new light. She found materials for the costumes and appeared to enjoy helping them to dress up. Even Colum watched with amusement and Connell who might so easily have imagined such mummery only fit for girls was delighted to be one of the Three Kings.

There was a great deal of speculation as to who would find the silver penny and be King for the Night. Connell boasted of what he would do if he were.

There was to be dancing, music and singing, the children would sing madrigals in which we would all join; then they would show their skill with their lutes and recorders.

From the kitchens there came the smell of baking. There was to be feasting as never before.