The House Of Lanyon. Valerie Anand
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