Daughter of Satan (16 page)

It was not that he wished to lose her; he found her company too entertaining for that; but he had discovered in himself parental feelings which he had not suspected he possessed, and he really wished to do what was best for his daughter. It seemed to him that she would be happier if she were married; he longed to see her with children of her own. If she married and reared a family, she might give up some of her wild ideas; she might accept him as her father, and her own birth as a purely natural event. This he greatly desired, since her persistence in her absurd belief, which proclaimed the savage in her, was at the root of his uneasiness.

Bartle Cavill was home from another voyage, and Bartle was possessed of a pride that equalled Tamar's own. It was clear that he was far from indifferent to Tamar, and Richard would not be displeased by a match between them.

Well, there was nothing he could do but wait and see. Tonight he was giving a ball for her. The first ball he had given. Why not? She was eighteen; and he wished all the gentry of the countryside to know that he looked on her as his daughter – illegitimate, it was true, but illegitimacy must be winked at when a man had no legal heirs. Tamar would be rich one day and a fortune would wipe out the stigma of illegitimacy.

From his window now he could see her talking to Humility Brown, who was working in the gardens.

He smiled. Her conduct regarding those three men from
Adventurer
had been brave in the extreme; and yet it might have been her superstitious belief in herself rather than bravery, which had made her act the way she had. He himself had not heard of the affair until it was all over. She had fed those men, who had not been suffering from the plague at all, but from starvation. She had – in that bold, proud way of hers – taken them under her wing. There were only two of them alive, as they had not been discovered in time to save the third man – Humility Brown and William Spears. William was working at the Hurly farm and was living in one of the farm cottages with other workers. Humility was working in Richard's own gardens and had been allotted one of the outhouses adjoining the house, for, as Tamar had pointed out, Joseph Jubin really needed assistance.

Tamar's delight in Humility Brown seemed admirable; but was it, Richard wondered. She was a minx, deeply conscious of that rare beauty of hers, and Humility Brown was a Puritan. Her pleasure in saving the man's life shone in her eyes every time she saw him; Richard guessed that Humility did not feel pleasure in Tamar's presence . . . Or was it that he was
afraid
he might feel pleasure? He was a minister from the town of Boston in Lincolnshire, and as fanatical in his beliefs as Tamar was in hers. It was said that there were more Puritans in that part of the country than in any other, and that persecution was more persistent there. Many of Humility's sect had fled to Holland – that centre of Protestantism – and lived there for some time. Richard found conversation with the man interesting, and was often turning over in his mind whether he might not find him some employment more suitable to his learning; but Richard knew himself; he had often decided he would do such-and-such and through sheer inertia had failed to make the necessary arrangements to bring these plans to fruition.

Now he began to wonder what Humility was saying to Tamar.

Tamar stood watching Humility weeding a flower bed. There were beads of sweat on Humility's brow, and not only
his physical exertions had put them there; he always felt uneasy in the presence of his employer's daughter.

‘Humility,' she persisted, ‘you are afraid of me.'

It was a matter of great secret delight to her that he should want to ignore her and yet find this impossible.

‘Nay,' said Humility; ‘I do not fear thee. In my mind's eye I see the Cross, and while I keep that in my mind and heart, I fear nothing.'

‘Ah, Humility, you are a good man, and I am glad I saved your life. You thought me an angel when I brought you food. Did I look like an angel?'

Humility lifted his eyes to her lovely, laughing face.

‘To a starving man, any who brought food would seem like an angel.'

‘Even if she came from the Devil?'

Humility said a prayer, not aloud; but she knew he said it by the way in which his lips moved.

‘What did you think when you heard who I was?' she demanded.

He went on muttering, and she stamped her foot.

‘Answer me, Humility I Have you forgotten that I am the mistress here?'

‘I would,' he said, ‘that you had allowed me to work on one of the farms . . . or in the town.'

‘But I saved your life. It is for me to say where you shall work. Humility, if you do not answer when I speak to you I shall have you punished.'

‘Your father is a just man. I do not think he would agree to punishment which was unmerited.'

‘If I asked him, he would.'

He smiled. ‘I should not fear punishment,' he said.

He continued to weed while she watched him. He both delighted and angered her . . . delighted her because he was a continual reminder of her power, angered her because there was a power in him that rivalled her own.

The minister from Boston was a man yearning to be a martyr. He was the sort who would suffer a thousand tortures and deem himself honoured to die for his faith. He believed the power of God was in him as firmly as Tamar believed
she possessed certain powers which were a gift from the Devil.

She knew why he looked at her quickly and looked away. He was a man, and he found her beauty encroaching on his notice; he found her, as most men did, desirable.

It was pleasant to be desired, though she had no wish at present to gratify any man's desires, since she was unsure of her own feelings in this matter; but whereas she could feel fear when the glinting eyes of Bartle Cavill were fixed upon her, she could feel amusement when this man looked quickly and looked away.

He was older than Bartle. He would be about thirty years old, she imagined, which seemed very old to her when she considered the man in the role of a lover. She could guess what sort of life he had led; he was a Puritan child of Puritan parents. Puritans believed that ministers should live frugally, as Jesus Christ had done when He was on Earth. Humility had been brought up to believe that it was sinful to laugh, to enjoy more food than would keep him alive, and as for dancing or making love – these would be mortal sins. She knew that with her flaunting beauty, her quick and ready laughter, her awareness of her own attractions, she must seem like the Devil incarnate to such a man.

She liked to be near him when he was working, just to tease, to taunt. She wished him to know that he was as vulnerable as other men.

She would not have dared to taunt Bartle in such a way.

‘Why do you frown at me, good Humility?' she asked. ‘Why do you stare at my hair as though you hate it?'

‘You should cut it short or hide it under a cap.'

‘Why so? Do you think it is a gift from the Devil?'

He did not answer and she went on imperiously: ‘Answer when I speak to you. Do you think it is a gift from the Devil?'

Then he said: ‘That may well be so.'

‘I thought that God made all beautiful things.'

He tried to plead with her, as he had on other occasions: ‘Do not be deceived. Mend your ways. Renounce the Devil. Embrace the true faith. If you would save yourself from enternal damnation, give up your evil ways.'

‘Was it evil to save your life?'

‘If you called in the aid of the Devil, I had rather you had left me to die.'

‘It did not seem so when I came to the barn. You called out to me most piteously. I'll warrant you'd have taken food then if imps from Hell had brought it to you.'

‘You deceive yourself, daughter.'

‘Don't dare to call me daughter. You know whose daughter I am.'

‘I know that your birth was the result of sin.'

‘What if I were to tell your master that?'

‘I would tell him so myself.'

She gave him a grudging smile of admiration, for she knew that he spoke the truth. He was brave; she must concede that. That was why she felt herself forced to taunt him; his bravery was as great as her own; his belief that he was right as firm as that she held.

‘You would, I believe,' she said. ‘Some masters would have you beaten for it. But he is a good man . . . a far better man than you will ever be, Humility Brown.'

He was silent.

‘Oh,' she went on angrily, ‘he does not go about thanking God that he is saved, that he is so much better than those who risked their lives to save his. He is a good man, I tell you, and if you dare say you are a better, I will whip you with my own hands.'

It was at such times that he had the advantage. He was calm, and she could never be calm. He was cold and sure; she was fiery and passionate, though equally sure.

‘And you would not care if I did!' Her eyes flashed. ‘But there are some things I could do which would make you care. Humility Brown, you are a coward. You are afraid to look at me. You take sly glances and look away. Have a care, Humility Brown! I might yet take you to eternal damnation with me. You think me beautiful. Your lips might deny that, but your eyes do not. I might decide to show you that you are but a sinful man, Humility Brown. You have heard talk of who is my real father, have you not? It is true, you know, that I am the Devil's own daughter.'

Laughing, she ran into the house and called to Annis to come to her room and help her to dress for the ball.

She knew that Annis' repeated assertions, that she looked more beautiful than ever tonight, were true.

The dress was of scarlet, blue and gold – her own choice of colours. The scarlet overgown opened in front to show the deep blue gold-embroidered skirt; her ruff was of finest lace – an upstanding collar that ended on the shoulders, leaving her bosom exposed after the fashion for unmarried ladies. She wore her hair loose, hanging down to the waist. There would be no one else at the ball who would wear her hair as she wore it.

Annis chattered gaily. Annis was now her personal maid, for Tamar, wishing to be known as a lady of fashion, must have such a maid of her own. Richard would have provided her with a trained one had she asked, but loyalty was strong in Tamar, and she wished to remove Annis from the housekeeper's tyranny. Indeed, Annis was more to her than any maid could have been; Annis was her friend.

‘You're more beautiful than anyone has ever been,' declared Annis, ‘'Tis no wonder folks say beauty such as your's ain't of this world.'

‘You're fond of me, Annis; that's why you think so.' It might be true, but Tamar was well pleased with the maid's words all the same.

‘Others think it, mistress,' explained Annis. ‘John, he said to me, “Annis,” he said, “Mistress Tamar have a beauty which is not of this world.” I spoke to him sharp-like. I said, “John Tyler, have you been so bold as to cast your eyes that way, then?” And he said, “Nay, Annis, I dare not. But there ain't another like her, and they do say as there's hardly a gentleman as claps eyes on her that wouldn't give his fortune to marry her, witch though she be.” I said, “You'd better keep your eyes on me, John Tyler.” To which he answered, “How could I help doing that, since her give you a charm herself to make me?”'

‘Ah!' laughed Tamar. ‘So that charm still does its work, eh?'

‘It does it beautiful, mistress. John's well-nigh beside himself for me some days.'

Tamar studied this maid of hers who had experiences such as she herself had not. She thought of Humility Brown, and immediately another figure entered her thoughts – a young man with the most brilliant blue eyes she had ever seen. Then there was another picture in her mind, a picture which had been responsible for many a nightmare.

I hate Bartle Cavill, she told herself.

In the gallery the musicians were already assembling.

‘Be quick,' said Annis. ‘You should be there with the master to greet the guests.'

Tamar hurried down. Richard was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase.

She curtsied gaily.

‘How do you like me, Richard?'

‘You look very beautiful, my dear.'

‘Then you are not ashamed to own me as your daughter?'

He refused to pander to her demand for compliments. ‘There is a wildness in your eyes,' he said. ‘What are you plotting this night?'

‘I make no plots.'

‘Perhaps I should make some for you. It would please me very much to see your married.'

‘I am happy as I am.'

‘You should marry and have children. It is the duty of a father to choose a husband for his daughter.'

She smiled demurely. ‘You have talked to me so much of the necessity to allow people free will that I cannot believe you would go against your principles.'

‘I am very fond of you. It might be that I should consider it my duty . . .'

She took his hand and kissed it. ‘And I love you dearly,' she said. ‘Nevertheless, I would not allow any to choose for me, or to arrange a marriage I did not want.'

‘I should not attempt it. But I do confess I should enjoy seeing you and your family riding over to Pennicomquick from Stoke . . .'

‘From Stoke?'

He laughed. ‘I was thinking of Bartle. I am sure he would very gladly marry you.'

‘Bartle!' She spat out the name. ‘I would rather die than marry Bartle. He is coarse . . . vulgar . . . lecherous. I wonder that you dare mention his name to me.'

‘Hush! I crave your pardon. All the same, I think you are hard on the young man. He is brave; he has had many adventures and would be ready to settle down and live the life of a land-owner with a family to bring up. Oh, I know he frightened you badly once. He was a clumsy boy, that was all.'

‘A lustful, lecherous beast!'

‘I am sorry. Forget what I said.'

‘I shall . . . with all speed.'