The Witch from the Sea by Philippa Carr Page A

I awoke in the four-poster bed … I was naked and different … and he was there …”
    “My God,” cried my mother. “Your father will kill him.”
    “So I feared.”
    “You told me nothing.”
    “I was unsure …”
    The horror had given way to love. She had taken me in her arms and was rocking me as though I were a baby. “My little Linnet,” she said. “Don’t fret. We will do something. I could kill him myself.”
    The burden had dropped away from me as I knew it would when I told her. She would find some answer. She always had. All my problems had been taken to her and when she knew them they had ceased to be insuperable.
    She sat down on my bed, her arm about me.
    “Linnet,” she said, “what do you remember of that night?”
    “I’m not sure. Sometimes I think I remember something … sometimes I believe I have imagined it. I was at the table and he filled my goblet. He said I was exhausted and needed refreshment.”
    “The devil!” she cried. “Oh Linnet, sometimes I hate men.” I knew she was thinking of my father. I knew a little of her stormy life and I believe that she had been ill-used. I knew that I had a brother Roberto who was somewhere in Spain, the son of her first strange marriage; I knew that my father had his bastard sons. And I wished I had confided in her long ago. “And then?” she prompted.
    “Then? I drank and the haziness came over me … Everything seemed to slip away. I was aware of him. I think I knew he lifted me up and carried me. Then I woke and it was morning and I knew what happened.”
    She was silent, and her arms tightened about me.
    “I have been so frightened,” I added.
    “You should have told me before, Linnet. But never mind, I know now.”
    “What can I do?” I asked.
    She stroked my hair. “Never fear, we’ll find a way. When your father knows he will go to Castle Paling. It could be the end of one of them.”
    “Yet he …” I began.
    “Yes,” she said. “Yet he. But men are illogical. What he will think an ordinary occurrence for himself is a violent outrage when performed by others. You are his beloved daughter; it is the daughters of others who may be ill-used.” She laughed, a sad bitter little laugh; and she went on stroking my hair. “I wish you had told me before, dearest. I cannot bear to think of your keeping this to yourself. How was he … this … man in the morning?”
    “He laughed at me. He said that I had not resisted him. He said I had joined him in a merry bed and it was as much my wishing as his.”
    “He is indeed a scoundrel. You must hate him.”
    “I do, and …”
    “I think I understand,” she said. “Do you remember anything of what happened during that night?”
    “I am not sure. Is it possible that I could not be sure?”
    “I think it is. But that night is over. Nothing can alter what happened then. You are carrying his child. You are sure, Linnet?”
    “I think so, Mother.”
    “We must make sure. But I would not have anyone know of this yet … not even my physician. What we have to think of is what we can do. You are unmarried and pregnant, and the man who wishes to marry you is not the father. If only it had been Fennimore, but Fennimore would not have behaved so.”
    “He is quite different from Fennimore.”
    “That man,” cried my mother. “His arrogance in the inn and everyone afraid of him. A plague on these men who think everyone in the world is put there to serve them. But let us think what must be done. That is of the utmost importance to us now, Linnet. There are herbs, of course. Maggie Enfield could have given them, but alas is hanging on her gibbet, poor soul. There are others but I fear that sort of thing, Linnet. It is not for you. Fennimore is a good man. He is a tolerant man and that is rare. I had set my heart on your marrying him.”
    “I cannot do that now.”
    “It is not impossible. What if we told him the truth?”
    “You mean you would ask him to father another man’s