The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  “If you go away, to Dunster or St. Catherine’s or anywhere else, I’ll go with you!”

  “You’re a dear girl, Quentin,” said Liza. “The only one not to pass judgement on me.”

  Quentin shook her head, not in denial, but because she didn’t know how to explain that she couldn’t pass judgement because she didn’t understand what it was she would be judging. She could not imagine being so enchanted by a man that the world turned upside down. All she could do was believe that it had happened to her mother, because her mother, whom she loved and trusted, had said so.

  “I’m very glad you were born,” said Liza, attempting once more to dry her eyes, “and I’m sorry to be burdening you with all this.”

  “You’re my mother,” said Quentin. “And that’s that.”

  Only that wasn’t that, because that phrase suggested finality, a settling of a problem, and the problem didn’t look like ever being settled. Nicky had indeed been cruelly disinherited and although Liza had now emerged from the spare room, she crept about the house like a shadow and no one except Quentin spoke to her much beyond necessity. Betsy pursed her lips and turned away whenever Liza entered the kitchen and Ellen imitated her. Richard literally pretended that she wasn’t there, even when she was handing him his dinner. His temper was very short these days, and he seemed to become crimson and breathless when provoked.

  Peter did try sometimes to talk to his wife, but his voice was always stiff, as though he were forcing himself. They were sharing a bedchamber again, but Quentin knew that one of them was sleeping in a truckle bed. And now, this morning, they had found Nicky’s letter and knew that he had gone. Liza, mouth trembling, said, “I hope my family will help him. He’s only thirteen.”

  Richard said, “It’s just as well. He’s none of mine and I’m glad to see the back of him. I hope he doesn’t try to come back, because if he does, I won’t have it.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Peter. “He’s only a lad. We’ve been his family since he was born and…”

  His father brushed him aside. “He’s got a family, a real one. I mean the Weavers and he’s had sense enough to go to them. If any neighbours get nosy, we’ll just tell them he preferred the Weavers to us and left at his own wish. The Shearers aren’t that nosy, anyway,” he added, swinging the conversation determinedly away from Nicky. “That was a surprise! Who’d have thought Martha would reappear with her sheep-shearing husband and apply for the tenancy when her dad died? I hear she leads old Tilly a miserable life. Revenge for being used as a maidservant when she was young, I suppose.”

  From then on, it seemed that Nicky’s name was not to be mentioned in the house. Richard cut anyone short who spoke it in his hearing. The news that Baldwin Sweetwater was dead, probably because of the encounter with her father on the bridge, was just one more wretchedness.

  Now, helping her mother to sweep old rushes out of the hall before strewing fresh ones, in Quentin’s sore heart something new had taken root—a sturdy little seedling of rebellion. The atmosphere in the house was so turgid with rage and misery that it could almost have been cut into slices with a cheese knife. The rest of her family seemed ready to live like this forever, but Quentin was not. The Quentin who had once kicked and cried in a vain defence of Nicky, had pleaded for his right to inherit Allerbrook, was pleading and kicking and crying again, inside her mind. Something must be done. She didn’t yet know what, but something…

  Liza, listlessly sweeping, seemed to lose heart. She stopped, leaned her broom against the wall, and said, “I must tell Betsy what to make for dinner. Your father likes mutton ham so we could have that, and finish the stew we had at supper yesterday…. Your grandfather hates waste….”

  She was constantly making offerings of food, trying to make the angry men of the house less angry by giving them the things they liked best to eat. Quentin could have wept for her. Liza went toward the kitchen and Quentin, putting her own broom aside, followed, just in time to hear Liza explaining that the stew should be finished at dinner today, and hear Betsy reply, “Yes’m,” and then, mouth primmed, turn her back and continue stirring a bowl of batter with a wooden spoon.

  “I can’t bear it,” said Liza. “I can’t bear it!”

  “And what might that be, ma’am?” Betsy enquired in a mumbling voice and still with her back to Liza.

  “This. You. As though I were a leper. Sometimes I think I’ll slip out one night, as Nicky did, only I’ll go to the barrow on the ridge, or maybe to the barrows on Winsford Hill. It’s higher and colder there. I’ll lie down in the night chill and the dew and let myself die. They say there are ghosts at the barrows. I’ll be one of them then, and maybe they’ll be kinder to me than you are!”

  “Well, would ’ee now?” Betsy still wouldn’t turn to her. “Add one mortal sin to another, would ’ee? Well, well, no surprise in that, I suppose.”

  “Oh, Betsy! How can you—after all these years?”

  There was a sob in Liza’s voice, and with that, the seedling of rebellion in Quentin shot up to full height in the space of half a second and burst into furious bloom. Darting forward, she seized Betsy’s arm and swung her around. The wooden spoon scattered yellow drops in all directions. “Don’t turn your back on my mother and sneer at her like that, you smug, self-righteous old prune!”

  “What?” Betsy spluttered.

  “You heard what I said! You watch your manners or I’ll make you!”

  Ellen, tending a pot at the fire, turned around and gaped while Betsy, outraged, flourished the spoon menacingly. “You watch your own manners, my wench. I don’t talk pretty to trollops and—”

  “It’s my mother you’re talking about!”

  “Trollop I said and trollop I meant! Passing off a bastard as the son of the house—”

  “Mistress Lanyon,” said Quentin savagely, “is still my mother. As for Nicky, that happened fourteen years ago and for all those fourteen years you’ve worked for my mother and she’s the same woman now that she was all that time! Don’t you dare call her a trollop again!”

  “I’ll call ’un what I like and I won’t talk to—”

  “Why not? You used to talk to Father Bernard and he was supposed to have had a son. You talk to my grandfather and I know all about him and Deb Archer, because Kat told me about them. You talked to Deb, too, apparently! So you’ll treat my mother with respect and—”

  “You should be ashamed! Standing up for a trollop—”

  Quentin lifted her right hand and administered a box on the ear which sent Betsy staggering. She threw her spoon down, clutched at her ear and began to howl. “Quentin, don’t!” Liza gasped. “Betsy’s over seventy. You mustn’t do that!”

  “Why not?” Quentin screamed. “I’m sick to my stomach of living like this…you creeping about, afraid of everyone…people glaring and saying things or else not saying things…Betsy making holier-than-thou faces and turning away from you…I hate you, Betsy, you self-satisfied old besom, how dare you, how dare you? And don’t you look at me like that or I’ll hit you again! I won’t have this…this feeling in the house, I won’t! Nicky’s been driven out but I’m not going to be driven out, and nor is my mother if I can help it and I’ll stand up for her if I choose!”

  “Quentin, Quentin…!” Liza was astounded. It was as though her sweet daughter, whose temperament hitherto had seemed perfectly in tune with her apple-blossom complexion, had undergone an extraordinary change into a wildcat.

  “Come, Mother,” said Quentin, turning to her. “Let’s go back and finish the rushes. And you two, Betsy and Ellen, you can just do as you’ve been told. Mutton ham and stew for dinner and see that it’s a good dinner and serve it up with pleasant faces. If that batter’s for honeycakes, we’ll expect them at supper, also served with a smile, do you hear?”

  “Yes, I wouldn’t mind seeing some pleasant faces myself,” said Peter, walking into the kitchen. “I’m astonished, Quentin,” he said. “I never thought my girl was such a termagant.” To he
r surprise, he smiled at her. “In these difficult days, Quentin, I’ve felt better every time I’ve looked at you and heard your gentle voice. And now, when all of a sudden it isn’t gentle, you’ve made me feel better still! Thank the saints you’re here.”

  He hadn’t looked at Liza. His eyes were on his daughter. “I can’t hold it against you that you love your mother. It’s right and proper, I suppose. I came to tell you, and you, Liza—” he turned to her at last, quite calmly “—that we all have an invitation. To Baldwin Sweetwater’s funeral.”

  The change in the air was noticeable when dinner was eaten. Betsy and Ellen, while Quentin’s dark eyes watched them with an ominous glitter, made approximately ordinary conversation. Liza, warmed by her daughter’s championship, talked a little, too, instead of eating in silence with her eyes on her platter, as she had done since she left the spare room. Peter made reasonably normal replies.

  Richard was the one who resisted most strongly. “I hear you’ve been throwing your weight about, young Quentin. Wouldn’t be getting a bit full of yourself, would you, maid? Perhaps it’s time we got you married.”

  “I will be happy to marry any suitable man you find for me, Grandfather,” said Quentin. Her tone was one of sweet compliance. “But,” she added, still in the same honeyed voice, “I couldn’t go further than a betrothal until I felt sure that my mother was safe.”

  “What do you mean, safe? Has anyone hurt her? Though you don’t mind hurting our Betsy, I hear.”

  “There’s more than one kind of hurt,” said Quentin. “When I know my mother is happy and…and…valued, and when I know that Nicky is all right, too…”

  “Nicky’s name isn’t to be mentioned under this roof. He’s no grandson of mine and I’ll thank you to forget he ever breathed.”

  “Nicky is my brother,” said Quentin. “I couldn’t forget him if I tried. I will marry as you choose, but, as I said, only when I know that both my mother and Nicky are well and happy.”

  “Speak to me like that again, girl, and you’ll be sorry.”

  “Lay a finger on her, Father, and you’ll be sorry,” said Peter, and Liza looked at him with gratitude, while Ellen, ignoring Betsy’s attempt to frown at her, smiled. Suddenly the battle lines were redrawn. Liza had acquired supporters. Only Richard and Betsy now were ranged against her. They were ranged against Quentin, too, which Liza hated to see, but Quentin herself was obviously unmoved by it.

  “I seem to be outnumbered,” said Richard. “It’s a sad day.”

  “If it’s wrong to love my mother and my brother,” said Quentin, “I’ll confess the sin to Father Matthew next Sunday.”

  “You’ll have a clever answer once too often one day,” said Richard, “when your doting father isn’t here to protect you!”

  Peter, changing the subject with an air of determination, said, “Are you coming to Baldwin Sweetwater’s funeral, Father?”

  “No, I’m not. I wouldn’t go to any burial of theirs except to dance on the grave,” said Richard unpleasantly. “You go, if you want, you and Liza and Quentin. You’ll feel awkward and so you should!”

  Autumn was coming. The nights had grown cold and the day of Baldwin Sweetwater’s funeral was overcast, with cloud flowing in from the west and a whisper of rain on the wind. The gathering in the church and then in the churchyard was well wrapped up against the weather.

  It was a big gathering, however. Most of the village of Clicket was there, and all the tenant farmers were represented. It was easy enough for the Lanyons, who did indeed feel awkward, to lose themselves in the crowd. They stood back as the coffin was carried to the waiting grave, with Father Matthew leading the way. Six men of the Sweetwater household, including Denis Sawyer, were Baldwin’s bearers. The Sweetwaters themselves walked behind: Walter, bent shouldered as no one had ever seen him before, Catherine swathed in a black cloak and holding the arm of her son, John, Agnes Northcote and her husband, Giles, pacing side by side.

  John attracted some attention, since he was now nineteen and an only son, but not yet betrothed. There had been approaches made by and to the Sweetwaters, but none of the girls had pleased him enough, or his parents either, and now the growing rumours of the new King Henry’s intentions toward his predecessor’s supporters had made offers dry up. But something must surely be settled soon, all the same. It was time. Speculation about John had featured in the White Hart lately and it was featuring again, even here at his father’s funeral.

  The coffin had reached the grave and was being lowered into the earth and Father Matthew had begun the words of the committal. Only those close by could hear him, because the wind blew his words away, but they all knew what he was saying.

  The Lanyons found themselves nearby, edged there by chance in the crowd. Catherine, releasing John’s arm, had moved toward Walter and spoken to him, and Walter, bending his head toward her, had replied. They seemed to be trying to comfort each other. John had drawn apart. Quentin found herself suddenly very sorry for him. He looked lonely and very miserable. She knew him by sight, though she had never spoken to him. All the Lanyons said that Baldwin had been an unpleasant man, but his immediate family had apparently cared about him.

  Quentin wondered sympathetically how she would feel if it were her father in that coffin, and then, on impulse, she moved forward, slipping between the people just in front of her, until she reached John Sweetwater’s side. He glanced around at her, and looking into his face, she said quietly, “I am so sorry. It must be a sad thing to lose your father.”

  “He died in his bed, and shriven,” John said. “It could have been worse. But thank you for your kind words. Who are you, by the way?”

  “Quentin Lanyon.”

  “Oh. Peter Lanyon’s daughter?”

  “Yes.” It occurred to Quentin that John no doubt knew all about the encounter on the packhorse bridge, but even though Baldwin’s death had been largely his own fault, his son might not accept that. Perhaps she had been unwise to come up to him like this and speak to him. “I—I’m sorry,” she said again. “I mean…I’m a Lanyon….” She looked away.

  “It’s all right.” John’s voice was harsh. “No one would blame you, anyway.”

  “Please…” Quentin would have liked to turn and run, but with the coffin ropes just being drawn up and Walter going forward now to toss a clod of earth onto the lid, and people all around with heads bowed in prayer, she couldn’t. “We’re all sorry,” she whispered.

  John was still studying her. Taking courage again, she once more turned to look at him. She saw that he was not quite a typical Sweetwater. He had the burly build, but his hair was dark instead of brown, and though it was wiry, it wasn’t bushy. Also, instead of the chilly grey Sweetwater eyes, he had good-natured blue ones. Timidly she smiled at him. She meant it as conciliation, an assurance that even though she was a Lanyon she really did feel for him. She had no idea how her smile lightened her face, and made her dark eyes sparkle.

  Unwillingly at first, and then more openly, John smiled back.

  You meet a man and he isn’t especially handsome or clever or wealthy or…or anything that makes him different from a thousand others, but you look at him and the world turns upside down and it never turns back again. It’s like being put under enchantment, only it isn’t enchantment, it’s love, and if it’s real, it doesn’t die.

  That was what her mother had said and now it had happened to her, as well. So this was what it was like—this yawning ache, this wish to know this young man, to seek out and become acquainted with every corner of his mind, understand his every thought and touch every last inch of his body. Yes, of his body. She wanted carnal knowledge of him. Father Matthew sometimes spoke of carnality in his Sunday homilies, warning his flock against it, even within marriage. Father Matthew was wrong! She wanted to slide her fingers through that dark wiry hair, press herself against John Sweetwater and investigate every curving muscle, bury her nose against his skin and inhale his scent; open to him and let him come into
her and be one with her. This was what it was like.

  His smile was fleeting, though it had remarkable charm. She could not tell whether it meant that he felt as she did, and she doubted it. He was unhappy; she had said something kind; he had perhaps noticed that she was young and nice-looking. He probably considered that her father had killed his. In any case, Lanyons and Sweetwaters were traditional enemies and no doubt he looked on Lanyons as socially beneath him. She could only let her soul be seen in her eyes, and hope, and pray, and yearn.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  PROPOSAL

  “It was none of my doing!” Herbert Dyer was defensive and indignant. In his sixties, with his beard now grey, he was not as bluff and self-confident as he had been. These days, he rarely went to meet incoming ships, because long hours in the saddle, or out in a coastal vessel amid the wind and spray, now wearied him. However, Richard Lanyon, though at sixty-five he, too, showed signs of age, was still capable of being intimidating when he was angry. He was angry now.

  “And I don’t believe it was Simon’s either, intentionally,” Herbert almost gabbled. “It was an error, just a mistake. We do have customers who want cloth dyed with that costly scarlet that’s made from a sort of insect in some far-off eastern country. Lady Elizabeth Luttrell, for instance. Now that she’s back in Dunster Castle, there’s been an order from her. She wants velvet that colour for her son’s bed hangings. Simon makes out the bills, but it’s a tedious task and it’s never been his favourite. I daresay he was tired and just accidentally went on charging the same rate when he finished a bill for someone who ordered the expensive dye and started on bills for people who’d had less costly colours. And I’m tired of you poking into my business and looking for trouble!” he added with an attempt at aggression.