When my grandmother suggested I go back with her I said that I couldn’t leave Senara, so she immediately said that Senara must come too. I told Senara and she was pleased; she wanted to get away from the castle and my father raised no objection to our going. I had never known my father so quiet before.

I felt a little comforted to be at Lyon Court. I had always enjoyed my visits there. Lyon Court was a young house compared with the castle. It seemed open, frank, candid … which doesn’t seem the right word with which to describe a house, but I use it in comparison with the castle—which was sly, in a way, full of secrets—having stood so long, I suppose. There had been a castle there in Norman days and of course it had been improved on over the Plantagenet years. My grandmother said that Lyon Court was ostentatious and that the Pennlyons wanted everyone to know that they had made a fortune. It was the sort of house which was proud of itself, if you can think of houses having personalities, which I do; and as a proud house it was a happy one.

The gardens were famous in the neighbourhood for their beauty and my grandfather liked that to be kept up. At this time of year there was not much blooming, naturally, but there was that air of promise of spring and summer glory.

We could see across Plymouth Hoe and out to the Sound with the ships coming and going. Senara loved it and as she had not suffered as much as I had over my mother’s death—although she had loved her too—she began to be excited about being at Lyon Court. Sometimes she would laugh aloud and then look at me in dismay. I would tell her she was not to worry if she forgot now and then because that would please my mother if she were aware of what was happening here. She would not wish us to mourn more than we could help.

My Aunt Damask who was fifteen—young for an aunt—was told by her mother to look after us and she did; but she was unhappy for she had loved my mother dearly, as all seemed to who had known her.

Looking back at that visit I think of sadness. We could not escape our sorrow by leaving the castle. This was my mother’s old home. At the great table in the lofty hall she had sat; she had climbed the staircases, walked along the gallery, ate here, slept here, laughed here. The memory of her was as strong here as it was at the castle.

But it was not unrelieved gloom because of the Landors. They had been staying with my grandmother for Christmas, and when she had heard of my mother’s death and had come at once to the castle, they had left Lyon Court and gone to visit other members of the trading company and were calling back for another brief stay on their way to their home at Trystan Priory. I had heard the name Landor now and then and I knew that this family was connected with my grandfather’s business, a great trading concern which was often spoken of with a kind of awe. I had gathered that my father was a little sceptical of it, for I had seen his lips curl when it was mentioned.

Senara and I were in the gardens with Damask, who was playing a song she had learned. I knew her mother had told her that she must try to take my mind off my mother’s death and this was what she was attempting to do. There was a clatter of horses’ hoofs and the sound of voices, all of which I connected with arrivals. Damask stopped playing and said: “Someone has come. I wonder who?”

Senara jumped up and was ready to go and see who it was. She was volatile and impulsive. I continually had to curb her.

I said, “We ought to wait until we are sent for, shouldn’t we, Damask?”

Damask agreed with me. “People often come,” she said. “Do you have many visitors at Castle Paling?”

I thought of the visitors—the squires of the neighbourhood who came when invited for Christmas and such festivities; we had always known when to expect them. There were others though who came unexpectedly. They weren’t ordinary visitors. They came to talk business with my father and I remember that my mother always seemed uneasy when they were in the house.

“We have a few,” I said.

“We have lots,” said Senara, who liked everything of hers to be bigger and better than anyone else’s. She had a habit of deceiving herself into thinking that it was. I checked her when I could.

“When your grandfather is here the house is often full,” said Damask.

I was glad he was not there. I knew his grief would be loud and vociferous. He would be angry because my mother had died and seek to blame someone. He always looked round for a culprit when anything went wrong. He would demand why doctors had not been called and blame my father. I knew he would. I did not want my father to be blamed.

“We shall soon know who it is,” I said.

And so we did.

I believe now that meeting Fenn Landor at that time helped me far more than anything else could. He too was ten years old—a few months older than I was. A good-looking boy with deep blue eyes; he was very serious. Perhaps because we were of an age, he singled me out for a special companion—Senara was too young, Damask too old, and through him I began to be interested in life again as, in my ten-year-old ignorance, I had thought I never could be.

He liked us to be alone so that he could talk. He chafed against his youth and longed to be a man. We would go off together and lie on the cliffs looking over the sea; or sometimes we would ride together. My grandmother, watching us closely, allowed this. I realized that she thought that Fenn could do more for me than perhaps anyone. He was not part of my old life as the rest of them were. He was someone entirely new and when I was with him I could cease to think of my tragedy for half an hour at a time.

He told me about his father, who according to him had been the finest man in the world. “He wasn’t rough and swaggering as so many men are,” he told me. “He was good and noble. He hated killing people. He never killed a man in his life. He wanted to bring good into people’s lives.”

“When did he die?”

“People say he is lost but I don’t believe it. He’ll come back one day. He was due to come home. We watched for him every day. Every morning when I wake up I say to myself: ‘This will be the day.’ And it goes on and on …”

I could see a look of blank despair in his face and I longed to comfort him. I knew that although he said he believed his father was alive, he feared that he was not.

“His ship was the Landor Lion. It was a joint venture—the Pennlyons and the Landors, you see. My family and your grandfather’s.”

“Ships are often delayed for months.”

“Yes, but you see this one was sighted off the coast in October and there was a great storm.”

“I remember the great storm.”

“So you see …”

“Go on hoping,” I said. “Strange things happen to ships. It might not have been his ship that was sighted. You can’t be sure.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You can’t be sure.”

Then he told me about the new East India Company which had been founded and he talked glowingly of the progress it had made, and how his father had been instrumental in making it great.

“It was his idea really, you see. It started long ago before I was born. It was after the defeat of the Armada. My father believed that peaceful trading was the answer to our problems.” I noticed with a touch of sorrow that he talked of his father in the past tense and I knew that in his heart he could not help thinking he was dead.

“How old will you have to be before you join your father?” I said deliberately, to restore his belief.

He smiled suddenly, dazzlingly; he had a beautiful face when he was happy.

“Sixteen perhaps. Six whole years.”

I was able to tell him about my mother’s death and that was the reason I was at Lyon Court with my grandmother. I found I could talk to him of that sad event more calmly than with anyone else. It was because he too had lost a deeply loved one. The bond was instantly formed between us. I knew he had loved and admired his father more than anyone, just as I had loved and admired my mother.