I glance up now, from writing this memoir, and watch Tynan playing on the grass with our sons. The sun is dappling the lawn and scattering jewels on the distant ocean. I set aside my pen and go out to join them. Tynan greets me with a kiss and slips an arm about my waist as we stroll together around the gardens. Even after six years of marriage, within his embrace is the place I want always to be. The beautiful golden manor house that is now our home slumbers in the early evening Port Isaac sun. Away in the hazy distance is the dramatic Athal promontory. On a sunny day such as this, its westernmost edge and the ruined skeleton of once-proud Tenebris can clearly be seen.
We go there sometimes, almost in pilgrimage. Tenebris holds no fears for us now. There are no ghosts—only memories. Demelza perished in the fire she had set. She, and Uther, can harm us no more. The children dash in and out of the ruins of what was the grand hall. Nature has laid claim to its splendour; tenacious weeds spring up between the stone flags while ivy binds loving tendrils around the balustrades. The portraits are long gone, and I am relieved, yet oddly saddened, that I will never again encounter Arwen Jago’s arrogant gaze. Our bench, mine and Tynan’s, is still there and we linger awhile. The scent of roses—the perfume of our love—reassures us.
Tynan’s hand slides lower now to pat the swell of my stomach. We hope this little one is a girl. And, although we have never discussed it, I know we will call her Eleanor. The boys tumble and shout on our carefully manicured lawn and we watch them with a shared smile. Edward is older by eighteen months. He is a quiet, sensitive boy who looks like Tynan, but with my blue eyes. He already shows signs of his father’s poetic soul and musical talent. Charles—no Cornish names for our children—is altogether more robust. He has the unmistakable Jago stare.
Betty, who works for us now as the children’s nurse, comes to the door to call them in for supper. Edward runs to do her bidding while Charles loiters defiantly. As he draws level with his brother, I see him reach out and sharply twist Edward’s ear. Edward lets out a wail of protest. Charles casts a furtive look our way to see if he has been observed, and Tynan’s hand tightens on my waist as we both see it at the same time. Strong white teeth flash in gold-tinted skin and light dances in the depths of his golden eyes as Uther Jago’s familiar impish grin flits across our three-year-old child’s face.