“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.

The stillness in the patio enveloped me. I looked up at the balcony on which I had seen Isabella. The doors were shut; there was no sign of life. I went quietly around to the side of the house; there was a pergola shady and made cool because the plants were trained over the trelliswork. I was facing a gate—wrought iron like that other—and beyond this lay a patch of land and a small hutlike dwelling.

As I stood looking through this gate a child emerged from the house; I judged him to be about two years old; he was dirty and barefooted, and he was dressed in a shapeless garment which came to his knees. He was rubbing his eye with his fist and he was obviously in distress because every few seconds a sob shook his body.

I had become passionately interested in children and his misery touched me deeply and made me want to alleviate it if possible.

He saw me suddenly and stopped; he stared at me and I thought for a moment he was going to run. I called out to him: “Good day, little boy.” He looked bewildered and I repeated my greeting in Spanish. My voice must have reassured him, for he came toward the gate and stood there. A pair of brown eyes were raised to me; his hair which was thick and straight was of a medium brown, his skin olive. He was an attractive little boy in spite of the grime; and the jauntiness was there in spite of his misery.