The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  “Oh!” Liza burst out, stamping her foot. “How I hate this secrecy!”

  “Good thing we’re off the bridge. You might damage it, stamping like that,” said Christopher, and as he pulled her into his arms, there, once again, was that tough grin which had turned her insides to water at the fair.

  They had other small squabbles later. Liza never told him of the feeling of guilt toward her family, which often kept her awake at night; nor did he tell her of his own wakeful nights, when he wondered what he was about, how it happened that the studies, the prospect of full priesthood, which had once, to him, been the meat and bread, the sweet water and glowing wine of the spirit, were now nothing but yesterday’s cold pottage.

  But sometimes their secret misery, forced to dwell side by side with this extraordinary thing which had come upon them and bound them together and could not be altered, seemed to turn them into flint and tinder and sparks of anger were struck, though only to be extinguished moments later by Liza’s tears and Christopher’s kisses and that sudden, enchanting grin as his temper faded.

  They never went further than kisses, though. Their stolen embraces woke a deep hunger in them, but the common sense to which they had been bred, and the knowledge, too, that they would be breaking Christopher’s solemn, priestly promise of celibacy, protected them.

  “I think sometimes that we quarrel because I want you so much but I know I mustn’t,” Christopher said once, after one of their brief arguments.

  Cautious caresses were all they would ever have of one another and they knew it. They would have this one magical summer, but never would the enchantment reach its natural conclusion, and the summer would soon be gone. As it now was. From what Liza had heard that morning, the woman with the sharp nose and ears apparently did have owl’s eyes, as well. Talk had started somehow and almost certainly with her. Very likely she knew them both quite well by sight. Their secret was almost out. Only her family’s kindly trust in her had kept them skeptical, but it wouldn’t last.

  Now, standing by the plague cross on the Alcombe road, they recognised that their time was done.

  “They are arranging my marriage,” said Liza. “And they’ve heard talk. We dare not ever meet again. It’s over, Christopher.”

  “Oh, dear God. Don’t say that!” He closed his fingers around her upper arms so tightly that she protested and he eased his grip, but his face had gone hard. “It can’t be…so suddenly, so soon!”

  “But we knew it was coming,” said Liza miserably. “We’ve always known. I can’t defy them and if I did—even if we ran off together—I shouldn’t take you from your vocation. I know that. Only, I don’t know how to bear losing you. I just don’t know how to bear it.”

  “Nor do I!”

  He drew her into the shelter of some trees, out of sight of the track, and pushed her coif back so that he could kiss her thick brown hair, and then for a long time they stood there, clasping each other so tightly that they could almost have been one entity, as they longed to be.

  Parting was so painful that they did not know how to do it. Liza, gazing into his face as though she were trying to memorise it, had a sudden inspiration and pulled a patterned silver ring from the middle finger of her right hand. “Christopher! Take this! It’s loose on my thickest finger, but it might fit one of yours. Please take it and wear it. I want you to have it!”

  “But…how did you come by it? If someone gave it to you as a gift, should you give it away?”

  “It belonged to my grandmother. When she died, Mother gave it to me. But it’s always been loose, as I said. I can say I’ve lost it. Mother will scold because she’ll think I was careless, but nothing more. Take it, Christopher, please.”

  He did so, trying it on his left little finger and finding that it fit quite well. Then, at last, after one final and furious kiss, they let each other go. Christopher, looking over his shoulder all the time, went to reclaim his pony, and Liza, putting her hair back under its coif, found her hands trembling. She saw him mount and waved to him, but then couldn’t bear it anymore. She turned away, brushing a hand across her eyes, and started back across the field.

  The women were still there, gleaning, nearer to the path now, and they looked at her curiously. One of them—Liza recognised her as Bridget, the wife of another weaver—said, “Are you all right, m’dear? You look a bit mazed and sad-like.”

  That was when she realised she was crying. She wiped her knuckles across her eyes. “It’s nothing.” They went on staring at her and she told them one small part of the truth. “I think I’m going to be married but I don’t know him very well and…”

  “Ah, that’ll come right soon enough,” Bridget said kindly. “Don’t ’ee worry, now. Nicholas’ll not agree to anything but what’s good for thee. Don’t ’ee fret a moment longer. You’ll be as happy as a lark, and think of all they pretty babes that’ll come!”

  “Of course,” said Liza, now determinedly smiling. “Of course I know you’re right.”

  Whatever happened she mustn’t have red eyes when she reached home. With a frightened jolt she realised she had been away without explanation for quite a long time, and that her parents knew there was gossip about her.

  She must find an excuse for her absence. She could say she had wanted to go for a walk and when passing through the lobby had overheard her father talking about marrying her to Peter Lanyon. That she hadn’t meant to listen but had accidentally heard that much. So she had walked to St. George’s church to pray for happiness in her future, and then walked back across the stubble field. Yes, that would do, and if Bridget should ever mention seeing her, it would fit in.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  UNTIMELY AUTUMN

  With an effort that felt like pulling her heart out of her body, Liza arranged another smile on her face as she approached her home, only to realise, on reaching it, that she needn’t have troubled. Her family was in the middle of one of its noisy crises. Dirk, the younger of the two menservants in the Weaver establishment, was up astride the roof ridge along with her cousin Laurie, doing something to a chimney, and she could hear shouting within the house while she was still several yards away.

  As she stepped inside, the smell of soot assailed her nostrils and the shouting resolved itself into confused cries of annoyance from women in the main room, and a furious bellowing from the back regions, which she recognised as the voice of one of the older cousins, Ed, declaring that soot was blowing into the fleece store and would somebody shut that accursed door before the whole lot had to be washed a second time!

  She walked into the living quarters and her mother and one of the maidservants, both liberally smeared with dirt, turned from the business of sweeping up a shocking mess of soot and disintegrated bird’s nest, which had apparently come down the chimney and mingled with the revolting remains of a fire over which someone had tossed a pail of water. Above it, the filthy and battered remains of what had once been a thin tree branch waved and waggled, presumably because Laurie and Dirk on the roof were agitating it. “What in the world…?” said Liza.

  “The chimney were blocked,” said Margaret. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I just went out to take the air. I went to St. George’s and—”

  “You and your walks.” But Great-Uncle Will had advised them not to challenge Liza, and Margaret, distracted by domestic upheaval, didn’t at that moment want to. “Find a broom and help us out. Fine old muddle this is, I must say. Spring-cleaning in October. I never did hear the like.”

  No need after all for excuses or lies. She’d got away with it. Thanking the saints for her good luck, Liza made haste to be useful. Later in the day, when order had been restored and dinner eaten, her parents called her to their room, and she felt alarmed, but their faces were kind. They simply wanted to talk about her marriage. Nothing less, but nothing more, either. If her absence in the morning had aroused any doubts, they evidently didn’t mean to mention them—unless Liza herself was foolish enough to be difficult. She
knew her kinfolk very well indeed.

  “The whole family has discussed it now,” her father said, coming to the end of his explanation. “We’ve agreed it’s a good thing for you. Peter Lanyon is young and healthy. The business side is not ideal, but it may work out well. Anyway, we intend to say yes.”

  “I understand,” said Liza nervously. Since she had not had to invent an excuse for her absence in the morning, she had taken care, throughout the interview, to look as though the notion of Peter Lanyon as her bridegroom were a complete surprise. She added, “It’s a big thing for me.”

  “Naturally. Have you any objection?” Nicholas asked. Her parents were both watching her sharply. Well, she’d better allay their suspicions before they voiced them. She dared do nothing else.

  “No, Father. I…I’m sure it’s a good thing.” She must, must be the sensible Liza her family wanted her to be. She shuddered to think of the storm of wrath the truth would arouse, and besides, Christopher might suffer. She made herself smile again. Would she have to spend the rest of her life forcing the corners of her mouth upward when all she wanted to do was cry and cry?

  Well, if so, so be it. She had no alternative.

  Christopher, on his way to Alcombe, felt like crying, too, but except for that one uncharacteristic fit of emotion during their first meeting in the dell, he was not in the habit of shedding tears. He must face it. He had lost Liza for good and what had been between them must remain a secret for all eternity. They had known it would be like this one day. It felt worse than he had expected, that was all. It was like an illness, but he supposed he would recover someday. And so, of course, would Liza. At the thought of Liza forgetting him, he did find tears attempting to get into his eyes, but with a highly unclerical oath he repressed them and rode on.

  At that very moment, at Allerbrook farm, another unsanctioned love affair was disturbing the air. It had been secret until now, and its emergence into the light had thrown Richard Lanyon into a dramatic fit of temper.

  “Marion Locke? Who in God’s name is Marion Locke? I’ve never heard of her! You’re going to marry Liza Weaver—it’s all settled! Who’s this Marion Locke? Where did you find her? There’s no Locke family round here!”

  Richard Lanyon stopped, mainly because he had run out of breath. He stood glowering in the middle of the room, the same room in which George’s coffin had lain awaiting its funeral. He had shouted so loudly that the pewter on the sideboard rang faintly as if trying to echo him.

  “She lives on the coast. In Lynmouth, Father. I met her at the Revel there, in June.”

  “Lynmouth? That’s as far as Dunster, the other way. I remember you went to the Revel. Well, half of Somerset and Devon go to it—young folk have to enjoy themselves. I’ve no quarrel with that, and if you’ve had a loving summer with some lass there, I’ve no quarrel with that either. Young men have their adventures. I did, in my time. But that’s one thing and marriage is another. How have you managed to visit her since? Oh!” Richard glared at his son. “Now I recall. Two weeks back, we drove the moor for our bullocks and somehow or other you got yourself lost in a mist, you that’s known the moor all your life. Came home hours late, after the cattle were all in the shippon, and said you’d mistaken the Lyn for the head of the Barle and thought you were going southeast instead of north. I thought your brains had gone begging, and all the time…”

  Peter stood his ground. “Yes, I saw her then. Other times were when I said I’d ride out to see how the foals or the calves were doing. It came in useful that we’re allowed to run stock on the moor. I’ve seen her twice a month since we first met. Marion visits relations—a grandmother and an aunt—in Lynton, at the top of the cliff, on the first and third Tuesdays of each month. We arranged it so I’d meet her in Lynton whenever I could.”

  “Who is she?” Richard spoke more calmly and with some curiosity. After all, if this unknown Marion Locke were a more profitable purchase than Liza Weaver, it might be worth indulging the boy. Nicholas would be upset, but maybe he could suggest someone else for Liza who would suit her parents better than Peter. He raised an enquiring eyebrow. Peter immediately dashed his father’s hopes by replying, “The Lockes are fisherfolk. They run a boat—the Starfish—out of Lynmouth harbour. They—”

  “Her father’s a fisherman?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He—”

  “Are you out of your mind, boy?” roared Richard. “When did fisherfolk and farming folk ever marry one another? Fisher girls can’t make ham and bacon and chitterlings out of a slaughtered pig, or brew cider, or milk a cow, and our girls can’t mend nets and gut mackerel!”

  “Are those the things that matter?” Peter shouted back. “Marion’s lovely. She’s sweet. We love each other and—”

  “When you’re living day to day then, yes, they do matter, boy, believe me, they do! When a girl can’t do the things you take for granted, that’ll soon see the end of your loving summer! The autumn leaves’ll fall fast enough then, take my word for it!”

  “Liza Weaver’s not been farm reared, either!”

  “She can bake and do dairy work. She’ll soon pick up the rest. And she’ll bring a pile of silver and a cut into the Weaver profits along with her. What sort of dowry has this Marion got, I’d like to know? Well? Tell me!”

  “I never asked. Not much, perhaps, but—”

  “I’ll tell you how much! Nothing! Fisherfolk never have a penny to spare. They put all their money into their boats. Marion Locke, indeed! You can forget this Marion, right away. I’ll—”

  “Father, she’s beautiful. And we’re promised to each other.” Peter raised his chin. “We’re betrothed and—”

  “Oh no, you’re bloody well not!” shouted Richard. “Not unless I say so and you needn’t go trying to get Father Bernard on your side, either! I won’t have it and that’s that. I’ll see this girl’s father and see what he has to say about it, and I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t agree with every word I say. Who is he? What’s his name?”

  “He’s well respected in Lynmouth. He’s Master Jenkin Locke and he lives by the harbour in the cottage with the birds made out of twisted thatch along the ridge of his roof. He made them himself. The Starfish is one of the finest boats—”

  “Be quiet! Just forget about Marion Locke, as from now! And…what is it?” Hearing a sound at the door, Richard swung around and found a timid-looking young girl there with bare feet, a shawl wrapped around her and a lot of straw-coloured hair trailing from under a coif that was badly askew. “Who the devil are you?”

  “I’m…I’m sorry, sir. But the mistress sent me—Mistress Deborah. I’m Allie, sir, her maid….”

  “Allie! Oh, of course! But what brings you…is something wrong? With Mistress Deborah!” Suddenly he was taut and alert, his eyes fixed on Allie, Peter’s vagaries for the moment quite forgotten.

  “Yes, sir, dreadful wrong!” Allie was near tears. “She’s so ill, sir. I’ve called the priest. She took a chill the day after the…the funeral, sir, when she fell in the river, for all you give her your cloak, and she’s worse and she’s sent me to fetch you, sir. She wants to see you….”

  Richard turned at once to his son. “Go and saddle Splash for me, while I get my cloak. Allie, is anyone with your mistress now—any other woman?”

  “Yes, sir, our neighbour. But she’ll not be able to stay long. She has children and—”

  “She won’t have to stay long. I’ll take you down to the village with me on my horse.”

  “But sir, I’ve never been on a horse.”

  “You’ll get up behind me and hold tight and we’ll be there in a trice. She’ll need you. Go with Peter and wait for me. Go on!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE LOCKES OF LYNMOUTH

  “I swore I’d never forgive the Sweetwaters for crashing into my father’s cortege,” said Richard Lanyon grimly. “Now there’s something else I’ll never forgive them for, in this world or the next. They as good as killed Deb Archer, that’s w
hat! If Humphrey Sweetwater ever meets me in a lonely place, he’ll wish he hadn’t!”

  “Master Lanyon, I don’t like to hear you talking like that.” Father Bernard had conducted Deb’s burial service with dignity, tacitly accepting Richard’s presence as natural without making any reference to the reason for it. In the priest’s eyes, however, this outburst went too far. It had also been too loud. In the group of mourners now moving out of the churchyard, heads had turned and brows had been lifted. Father Bernard put a hand on Richard’s arm to halt him. “It’s not wise to raise your voice so much,” he said. “What if the Sweetwaters hear of it?”

  “Maybe it’ll stir their consciences!” Richard was unrepentant. “Poor, poor Deb. Never harmed a living thing and everyone who knew her was the happier for it.” He was going to miss her more than he had dreamed possible. She had been friend as well as mistress—someone to talk to and laugh with as well as to sleep with. “And now I’ve watched her being put in the ground, all because of the bloody Sweetwaters!” Richard thundered.

  “I’m sorry, too, Father.” Peter, who had been walking with them, had stopped beside Richard. “Everyone is.”

  “Her little maid, Allie, said she was chilled when she came home all wet that day,” Richard said. “But she still went out again after she’d changed, so as to come to my father’s burial. Sun was out, but there was a sharpish wind. Allie told me she fell ill next day. Looked like a bad cold at first, but two days after that she started coughing and in two more days, she was in delirium and Allie was sending for the priest and for me, and she died that night, with me holding her. All because the Sweetwaters…!”

  Fury choked him. Shaking off Father Bernard’s hand, he jerked his head at Peter to follow, and strode out of the churchyard, not turning toward Deb’s cottage where the other neighbours were going for the funeral repast, but turning the other way instead, evidently making straight for home.