Valerie Anand - The House Of Lanyon

There it was again, that vigorous grin. “It’ll be just lodgings at first, but one day we’ll rent a little house. Here or in France, we’ll manage. There’ll be children. Just an ordinary, everyday life, but we’ll be together. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s all I can imagine wanting,” said Liza. And closed her eyes for a moment, so as not to see the rocks at the foot of the cliff, and jumped. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll come. But Christopher…even if we can’t marry, can’t we at least take vows?”

He glanced around. The girls were still chattering together; beyond them, the prior was still monopolising the Luttrells and Father Meadowes, and Liza’s family was still deep in conversation with their friends. Rapidly, in a low voice, he said, “I, Christopher Clerk, promise before God that I take thee, Liza Weaver, as my wedded wife.”

Also rapidly and in an undertone, Liza said, “And I, Liza Weaver, promise before God that I take thee, Christopher Clerk, as my wedded husband. There!”

“It’s not valid,” said Christopher. “Not in the eyes of the church. But it’s valid for me, my love. When and where can we meet? I’m often free for a while after dinner, just as I always was, though I do more study now, so the best time would be later than it used to be. About three of the clock would be right, I think.”

“Won’t we need horses?”

“Horses!” For a moment he looked appalled. “Horses—of course! My wits are going, I think. Well, one thing I daren’t do is steal horses from the Luttrells. Can you get hold of any horses?”

“My father has three ponies. We all use them. They’re family animals…as much mine as anyone’s. I don’t think they’ll come after us for horse theft! But Christopher, they suspect something—they watch me these days. Yesterday they wouldn’t let me go out for a walk alone. I can go into the garden, though!” She was thinking aloud. “I could get away over the meadow at the back. That’s easy for you to reach, too. You mean we’d set off at once?”

“Yes.”

“We could meet and go straight to the paddock. Tomorrow?”

“No, Tuesday. Mondays I do some study with the chaplain after dinner and if I don’t appear, he’ll look for me. We need a head start if we’re to get away safely. But Tuesday, yes, unless it’s pouring with rain. If it is, then the first day when it’s not. If Tuesday is dry—then that’s the day.”

Ned stayed overnight but didn’t broach the matter of Peter’s love affair. Richard did not discuss his visit to Lynmouth, either, and Peter, though he knew well enough where his father had been, asked no questions. The next day Ned left. Peter still asked no questions. Richard, grimly, knew what the boy was up to. He was just going to blank Liza Weaver out of his mind and pretend she didn’t exist. Well, that ploy wasn’t going to succeed. Even if Liza had never been born, Marion Locke was an impossibly unsuitable bride for Peter Lanyon. It was time to talk to the boy again.

This, however, was the day when they and their neighbours went to fetch the ponies in from the moor, to check their condition, separate the foals from their mothers and choose the ones to be sold. It meant rising early and snatching breakfast on one’s feet, with no time for family wrangles. Afterward they would dine with the Rixons, whose farm adjoined theirs farther down the hillside. It would be a late dinner and they’d come home tired, with a dozen chores to do before a hurried supper. There would be no good opportunity in the evening.

However, the matter was so urgent that Richard finally blurted it out when he and Peter were riding close behind the herd as it trotted, all tossing manes and indignant white-ringed eyes, through the narrow lane that led to the Clicket pound. Just then, they were out of earshot of their fellow herdsmen, who were some way behind. Richard seized his chance.

His son’s reaction was pure outrage.

“You’re lying!” Peter said fiercely. “Telling me that Marion’s betrothed herself to others beside me! She wouldn’t! She couldn’t! Betrothal’s serious—it’s nearly as binding as marriage, and—”

“I’ve seen the girl and I’ve talked to her father. I don’t blame you for going head over heels for her, boy, but she’s not for marrying. What you’ve got,” said Richard brusquely, “is an attack of sex. We all get it. It’s like having the measles or the chicken pox. If you wed her, the day would come when you’d be sorry. She’s a lightskirt. I tell you—”

“No, I’ll tell you. If when you were betrothed to my mother someone had called her a lightskirt, how would you have felt? What would you have said?”

“No one would have said such a thing, that’s the point, you damned young fool—can’t you see it? Why, your mother’d hardly as much as kiss me until we’d both said I will. Can you say that of Marion?”

“I’m not going to talk about this. I’m betrothed to her and that’s the end of it,” said Peter, and spurred his mount up onto the verge alongside the track, shouting at the herd to hurry them up, his face averted from his father and likely, thought Richard bitterly, to remain that way for a very long time indeed.

It was all the more annoying because the fury emanating from Peter had almost intimidated him, and Richard was not going to tolerate being bullied by his own son. He knew he would be wise not to try physical force to make Peter obey him, but there were other methods. One way or another, Peter, that ill-behaved pup, must be brought to heel.

And he was beginning to see how he might achieve it. Since her death, he had more than once dreamed at night of Deb Archer, but oddly enough, last night she’d turned into Marion halfway through the dream.

Maybe that cheeky, overweight, well-bred friend of Peter’s, Ned Crowham, was right. Maybe he ought to get married again after all.

There’d be no advantage, socially or financially, in marrying Marion Locke, but now that he’d seen her…

Peter hadn’t got her with child, but probably that was because he hadn’t had chances enough. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t have babies once she was a wife. It would be a pleasant change for Allerbrook to have children about the place. His and Marion’s; Peter and Liza’s. Peter’s marriage would be the one to bring the material benefits. And it would show Peter who was master. Oh, yes indeed.

It wouldn’t do to have Peter under the same roof as Marion, of course. No, that would be daft. But there was a good-sized cottage empty just now, over on the other side of Slade meadow, where Betsy’s son and his wife and children had lived before the young fellow took it into his head to go off to the other side of Somerset because he’d heard life was easier there, away from the moors that were so bleak in winter. And off he’d gone, depriving Allerbrook of two pairs of adult hands and several youthful ones. George had been alive then and he hadn’t been pleased. He’d said that all of a sudden he could see the point of villeinage.

Still, the cottage was there, and once Peter was installed in it with Liza, he needn’t come to the farmhouse often. He wouldn’t come at all, except when his father was there; Richard would see to that. Once the boy had settled down and seen what Liza was worth and got some youngsters of his own, and Marion had a few as well, wanting her attention, getting underfoot and thickening her midriff, Peter’s infatuation would die away.

Marion would probably breed well. She looked strong, quite unlike his poor ailing Joan. It was an idea.

It was a most beguiling idea.

“Where’s Liza?” Margaret called to Aunt Cecy as she came down the stairs from her bedchamber. “In the weaving shed? It’s time we were talking of her bride clothes, and I must say I’m surprised that Peter Lanyon hasn’t been over to see her. A girl’s entitled to a bit of courting.”