The Witch from the Sea by Philippa Carr Read Free Book Online

canvas was set up on a gigantic frame and on it was sketched the picture she would work. It was attractive. There were the little ships and the great Spanish galleons. There was the King of Spain in his gloomy Escorial and the Duke of Medina Sidonia with his ships. And on the other hand we had our own Queen at Tilbury and Sir Francis playing bowls on the Hoe. And the battle—the fireships which caused such havoc and the broken galleons drifting out to sea.
    “Why,” I said, “it is almost a life work.”
    “I shall start it … as indeed I have,” she said. “It will be for future members of my family to finish it.”
    It was almost as though she were putting a needle into my hand and telling me to begin.
    “It will be wonderful when it is completed.”
    “I hope to see it finished,” she said.
    “But of course you must.”
    “I have hundreds of skeins of silk stored away.” She talked of the colours she would use. Reds, scarlets and gold; black for the costume of the King of Spain; scarlet and gold for our Queen. “Oh my dear Linnet, what a terrible time that was. I hope never to live through such a time. I have never known such a time of wretchedness … except …”
    She stopped and bit her lip. Then she brightened; “But it is over now. There are still dangers at sea … but the Spaniards can do us little harm now. I was always terrified of them … terrified that they would come here. And of course when the men sailed away I used to shut myself in my sanctuary—” she inclined her head towards a door leading from her room—“and there I used to pray that they would come back safely. But you are a sailor’s daughter. You know.”
    I considered this. It had never occurred to me that my father would not come back. There was something invincible about him, and he always had returned. Though there had been a time when he was gone so long that it had seemed that it was for ever.
    “If I had lost them,” she went on, “that would have been death to me. I should have had no one left … no one. After Melanie …”
    Her face puckered suddenly and she seemed to come to a decision. She said: “Come with me.”
    I rose and she went to the door I had seen. She opened it.
    I followed her into a room. It was rather dark as there was only one small window, lead-paned. In this room I noticed a crucifix and before it a table on which were candle sticks. It was like an altar.
    “Sometimes,” she said, “I come in here to be alone and pray.”
    Then I saw a picture on the wall. It was of a young girl about fifteen, I imagined. She had fair hair which fell about her shoulders and blue eyes. She was remarkably like Fennimore.
    “She is beautiful, do you agree?” said Fennimore’s mother.
    I did agree.
    “My daughter. My Melanie.”
    “I was not aware that you had a daughter.”
    “I had a daughter. Alas, she died.”
    “How sad.”
    She lowered her head as though she could not bear to go on looking at that lovely young face.
    “I had the picture brought in here. I could not bear to see it every time I passed it in the gallery. I wanted it where I could see it in private, where I could weep over it if I had to, and look at it and remember.”
    “Was it long ago?” I asked.
    “Three years.”
    “So recent?”
    She nodded.
    I was not sure whether she wanted to talk or not, so I tried to convey my sympathy without seeming curious.
    “She was murdered.”
    “Murdered!”
    “Please, I cannot talk of it. She was too young for marriage. I should never have allowed it and … she died.”
    “She was your only daughter?”
    She nodded.
    “You have your son.”
    Her face cleared a little. “He is the best son a woman could have. Thank God we have Fennimore. But we lost Melanie … my little Melanie. I often say to myself: I should never have allowed it. I shall never forget the day she told me she was going to have another child.”
    “She had had others?”
    “No. Attempts. They all failed. It was clear