Honey's Farm

by Iris Gower

  Jamie mounted his horse and rode uphill away from Honey’s Farm. He would have to keep to the perimeter of the land if he was not to be spotted by Price or Mike the Spud.

  The clouds were closing in overhead and the moon was obscured much of the time, which was all the better, Jamie thought in satisfaction; the growing darkness would contribute to his element of surprise.

  As he drew nearer to the run-down farmhouse, Jamie dismounted from his horse, speaking softly to quieten the animal. Then, gun in hand, he moved soundlessly over the grass, aware of the faint gleam of lamplight through an opening in the curtains.

  He’d get the bastards; he’d shoot them both dead if necessary. Jamie gritted his teeth and crouched lower, his every sense alert as he listened to sounds within the house.

  Until now, he had not realized how much he loved Fon; she was his life-blood, part of him, as though her blood ran in his own veins. That was something he must tell her, as soon as he could. He would hold her in his arms and never, ever, would he let her out of his sight again.

  ‘I’m not staying to help you any longer.’ Mike the Spud’s voice was edged with desperation, and Price stopped in his tracks, his hand gripping Fon’s shoulder tightened.

  ‘What did you say?’ Price ground out the words, and Fon flinched as his fingers bit into her flesh. She glanced up at him; his red, angry face and burning eyes seemed to hover above her like a vision in a nightmare.

  ‘It’s madness to stay here, man,’ Mike said. ‘I don’t want to go to jail. Come on, see sense, Price! Let’s get out while the going’s good.’

  Price strode across the room and slapped Mike several times across his face. ‘Shut up!’ Price sounded beside himself. ‘Stop snivelling like a child! Where are your guts, man?’

  ‘I’m not lacking guts.’ Mike sounded angry too now, his pride doubtless hurt by the blow Price had given him. ‘But I’m not crazy either. This thing has gone wrong; let’s face it and get out.’

  ‘Are you calling me crazy?’ Price demanded, his voice low now. ‘Don’t ever call me that, you scum.’

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ Mike said. ‘I’m going to get out of here, and you can’t stop me.’

  Mike moved suddenly, bending down towards his boot, and then there was a knife gleaming in his hand.

  Fon screamed out a warning as Price flung himself on Mike.

  ‘I’ll kill you before I’ll let you walk out on me!’ he shouted. ‘A knife doesn’t make you any more of a man; I’ll best you yet, you bastard.’

  The two men rolled across the floor, Mike’s foot connecting with Price’s head. For a moment, the man lay still, and Mike, breathing heavily, got to his knees.

  Fon held her breath. Was the fight over? Would Price crumple under the force of Mike’s superior strength? Fon knew that for Mike to win the fight was her only chance. Mike rolled across the floor, blood running from a wound in his chest. Price was on his feet in an instant, the knife in his hand.

  Fon stared in horror; Mike lay as if mortally wounded, his eyes wild with pain and fear, his big hands clenched.

  Price turned on her then, the knife poised, and Fon tasted the bitterness of fear like bile in her mouth.

  He fell upon her, gasping loudly, pulling at the ropes that bound her, and, once she was free, he pushed her to the floor, dragging at her clothes with his bloody hands. Fon screamed.

  The door shot open with a resounding crash, and Fon, using all her strength, pushed Price away from her.

  He staggered, looking wildly towards the door, and Fon drew in a sharp breath as gladness filled her. ‘Jamie!’ she cried.

  He was in the kitchen then. He seemed to fill the room with his anger; he radiated strength, and his eyes burned in his face as he looked towards where Price was now standing.

  In his hand was a gun; but, even as he raised it, Price lunged forward and grasped the barrel.

  ‘Jamie! Look out!’ Fon called.

  But Jamie didn’t hear her; he was locked in a silent struggle with Price.

  A table crashed over and the oil lamp fell to the floor. Immediately a trail of spilt oil caught fire, and the flames seemed to engulf the small kitchen.

  Fon screamed and then crawled towards Arian, tugging with frantic fingers at the ropes that bound her. Arian was on her feet at once, grasping Fon’s arm. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ Arian said urgently.

  Jamie half turned, and it was then that Price caught him a blow to the side of the head that sent him reeling.

  The flames caught the curtains and they blazed bright against the dark windows, turning acrid and black in seconds. The heat was becoming unbearable.

  Fon, in the doorway now, resisted Arian’s urgent hands, heard the sound of an explosion, and saw the shattered fragments of an oil can fly across the room like fiery missiles. In a panic she spun round, her eyes searching through the smoke and flames for sight of her husband.

  She put her hand over her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes. She tried to peer through the debris, her ears straining for sounds of life, but there was only the roaring of the flames as they took a greater hold on the building.

  ‘Jamie!’ Fon called in anguish, knowing that if he was dead, she wouldn’t want to live. The flames could consume her too, extinguish her life, and it would be a blessing.

  Through the smoke, a figure suddenly appeared, the broad shoulders and the strong neck so sweetly familiar to her that Fon gasped in relief. Then Jamie was at her side, drawing her away from the heat of the blaze, his face blackened with smoke.

  He swung her into his arms and they clung together, both of them gasping for fresh, cleansing air.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jamie demanded, and then, as Fon nodded, he moved away from her towards the farmhouse, intending to re-enter the inferno. Just then a ball of flame exploded upwards, and the roof of the farmhouse, with a sound like a scream, caved inward.

  Fon held on to Jamie with both hands. ‘It’s too late to save anyone,’ she gasped, ‘much too late.’

  She swayed against him, and Jamie clasped her in his arms, his breathing ragged. ‘You are safe now, my colleen, safe. Don’t cry.’ He tipped her face up to his. ‘Did that bastard . . . ?’

  His words died away into a choked silence, and Fon shook her head. ‘He didn’t touch me,’ she said, and for the first time in hours she smiled. ‘I think he was too afraid of you for that.’

  As Jamie led her away from the blazing farmhouse, Fon paused, looking up at him. ‘Arian . . . where is she?’

  ‘Here I am!’ Arian appeared, leading Jamie’s horse. ‘I thought I’d go into town, report the . . . the accident; someone has to.’ She smiled. ‘And I think you two are well able to take care of each other.’

  She mounted swiftly and then was riding away, a slim figure in the moonlight.

  ‘She’ll be all right, she’s a girl with the courage of a man! Arian Smale is going to do just fine in life,’ Jamie said softly.

  He put his arm around Fon’s shoulder and began to lead her down the hill; then he paused for a moment and looked back at the farmhouse. Flames were shooting up into the darkness of the night sky, illuminating the unkempt land.

  He stared down at Fon then, and she saw the glint of tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.’

  ‘You won’t lose me,’ Fon said. ‘I live and breathe for you, Jamie, you know that.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever told you, not properly,’ Jamie said softly, ‘I love you, colleen.’

  ‘I know,’ Fon said. ‘There’s a lot I haven’t told you, too; but I will when the time is right.’

  Fon’s mouth curved into a smile. She put her hand contentedly on her still flat stomach and sighed softly; after the ordeal she’d been through in the last hours, childbirth would hold no fears for her. Contentedly, Fon nestled closer to Jamie as they walked across the fields towards their home.

  Suddenly the moon slid from between the clouds, silvering the rooftops of the house. From one
of the windows, a light gleamed, and Fon glanced up at her husband, so tall and strong at her side. Excitement filled her; soon there would be a new life, her baby and Jamie’s, to join the little family who lived and worked on the sweet lands of Honey’s Farm.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The boarding house was spartan, to say the least, set on the outskirts of the town in a run-down area near the docklands. The rooms Eline occupied were small, sparsely furnished but clean, and she stared around her, her baby clutched in her arms, her small bag of possessions still not unpacked on the shelf.

  She suppresed the flood of threatened tears, saddened in the knowledge that Calvin Temple had made up his mind to humiliate her as much as he could before the final humiliation of the divorce.

  Not that she didn’t deserve it; she had betrayed him, betrayed her marriage vows, and she could not blame her husband for being bitter.

  Eline looked into the sleeping face of her child, Will’s child, and love flowed through her; was she such a bad woman, really? All she had done in truth was to go to the bed of the man she really loved, had loved for so long that he seemed a part of her.

  ‘Will . . .’ she sighed softly. ‘Oh, Will, why did I have to go and make so many mistakes?’

  She was tired; the lonely hours had dragged. She put the baby carefully on the bed and lay down beside him. ‘You have no father, now, boy bach,’ she said softly. ‘But I will make up for it. You are mine, my son, and we will survive, I promise you that.’

  She looked around at the small room; this wasn’t ever going to be her permanent home, both she and Calvin knew that. She had her own source of income and she could take on extra work; she and her baby would not live in poverty.

  The tiny hand of her baby curled around her finger, and blue eyes looked up into hers. Eline sighed wearily, overcome with the riot of emotions that had almost made her lose all hope for the future. She closed her eyes, and soon she slept.

  When she woke, the light had faded, but Eline’s mind was suddenly clear. She rose from the bed and, pouring water from the jug on the table into the rose-painted bowl, splashed her face and hands. Refreshed, she sat in a shabby armchair near the window and looked out at the dingy streets outside.

  Across the road was a public house, illuminated by a gas lamp, the name fading into the stone work, the windows badly needing attention. Alongside the public house was a grocer’s shop, and behind the closed doorway stood sacks of corn and meal.

  Why had she consented to come here? Eline thought angrily. She still had the gallery; she still had her skill as a designer. And, squaring her shoulders angrily, she told herself that she still had her self-respect. A sense of renewed hope surged through her. She must not lose her spirit; she must fight to give her son a good start in life, for there would be enough problems to face him when he grew to manhood.

  There was a knock on the door, and the land-lady entered the room, a tray on her arm. ‘I thought you might need a nice drop of hot tea and some scones.’ She smiled amiably and Eline took the tray gratefully.

  In one thing, at least, Calvin had slipped up; he had chosen as Eline’s landlady not a dragon but a kindly, honest soul.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Jessop,’ Eline said humbly. ‘A cup of tea would be very nice.’

  She noticed there were two cups on the tray, and the landlady nodded her head. ‘Aye, I thought I’d join you, thought perhaps a bit of company would do you good. You’ve been on your own too much, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Please sit down. I’ll pour, shall I?’ Eline breathed in the fragrance of the tea as it poured into the spotlessly clean china cups. Mrs Jessop was a good, if thrifty, landlady and had a motherly air that made Eline warm to her.

  ‘It’s not my business,’ Mrs Jessop said slowly, ‘but you should think things out clearly now, Mrs . . . er . . . Lady . . . er . . .’

  ‘Call me Eline.’ Eline sipped her tea, feeling there was some sort of lecture coming but not knowing how to stop Mrs Jessop in her tracks; she obviously was well-intentioned.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Mrs Jessop continued. ‘Although your husband is about to divorce you and disown the child, you still have rights.

  ‘The boy’ – she nodded to the baby on the bed – ‘was born in wedlock, that makes him Lord Calvin’s responsibility, his heir, and . . . er . . . adultery, if you’ll forgive me, is very difficult to prove.’

  ‘You seem to know a great deal about it.’ Eline was genuinely impressed. ‘I believe you are very probably right; but I want nothing of Lord Temple’s. I have my own business; I shall make my own way, without him.’

  ‘I was in the same situation myself once, and it didn’t turn out too badly.’ Mrs Jessop smiled and gestured around her. ‘I got the house out of it, even though my husband wasn’t rich like Lord Temple, mind, and I want you to think very carefully before you give up anything you are entitled to.’

  She rose and took up the tray. ‘Supper will be ready soon, and if you want it in your room, just give me the word.’

  Eline shook her head. ‘No, I’ll join the rest of the boarders; it will do me good to have company.’

  At the door, Mrs Jessop paused. ‘If ever you want me to keep an eye on the baby, I’d be glad to’ – she paused – ‘at very reasonable terms.’

  Eline smiled to herself as the door closed behind Mrs Jessop. She was kind but brisk, a good businesswoman, clearly; and she could be trusted, Eline felt that instinctively.

  She was surprised by the way she settled into the routine of the boarding house and amazed at the ease with which she fitted in to the rules and regulations Mrs Jessop imposed. For the time being, she decided, she would remain where she was; it might be just as well to take Mrs Jessop up on her offer to look after the baby.

  The baby – she would have to rename him now, Eline thought wistfully; she could hardly keep the names her husband had given the child. ‘William.’ She said the name softly, and it was tempting; but she hadn’t the face to be so blatant about her son’s paternity. Perhaps she should name him for herself; Emlyn was near enough to Emmeline.

  ‘Emlyn,’ she said softly. ‘Yes, Emlyn would suit you very well, my son.’

  Eline could not help but notice that she never received any money directly from Calvin; her board and lodging were paid for, it seemed, directly to Mrs Jessop. It didn’t matter; soon she would tell Calvin not to bother at all. She would make her own way in life, pay her own bills. She didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, not now, not ever.

  What did irk Eline was that her life seemed to have lapsed into a rut of idleness, and afresh there rose the urge to go out into the world and to conquer it. As the days passed, the feeling became so strong, so irresistible, that Eline realized her days of sitting in her room, playing with her baby, were over; she must get back to work.

  Mrs Jessop quickly came to an arrangement for the care of the baby, her practical nature making negotiations for her payment no embarrassment at all.

  ‘I’ll have him downstairs with me,’ she said, and her words made sense. ‘He can lie in the drawer of the dresser for now, but you should get him a carriage.’ She smiled. ‘Just send the bill to your husband; he won’t object to such a modest request, I’m sure. You must be the most undemanding wife I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘I told you,’ Eline said, smiling to soften her words, ‘I want nothing from Calvin, and once I get back into harness, I won’t even need him to pay the rent for me.’

  ‘Well, he should do that much, at least,’ Mrs Jessop said dryly. ‘He did have the joy of you as his wife and hostess, and anything else he chose to enjoy with you. Let him pay for it, I say.’

  Eline didn’t reply, but determination was growing within her to be free of Calvin, really free of him and of her role as his pampered wife. She was used to working; her life had never been easy, not until the last few years. She could and would work again, make a future for herself, find fulfilment not only as a mother but as a businesswoman.
>
  It was a few days later when she made her way towards the terminus of the Mumbles train, her bag clutched in her hand, her nerves ragged. As she waited in the cold street, she felt apprehensive at the prospect of coming face to face with Calvin again at the gallery. She had not seen him since the day she had left his home, with the baby in the shawl – the fateful day when Calvin had found out the truth, the day she had seen Will and he had realized her child was his own flesh and blood.

  Her thoughts veered away from Will. She could not, would not, drag him into the tangle that was now her life; he had enough problems without taking on hers.

  She climbed aboard the train with a feeling of great thankfulness for the warmth of the crowded compartment. Her hands were chilled; she had found no gloves in the possessions Calvin had hurriedly flung together into a bag when he’d decided to throw her out of their home. Neither had he thought to pack any warm boots.

  Eline smiled. At least that was something she could easily remedy; there would be leather aplenty in the workshop. She was determined to go there later, see how work was progressing, and ask one of the cobblers to make her some boots as quickly as possible.

  She felt drowsy in the warmth of the train and, looking out, she saw that the sea was shrouded in mist. It was a cold, clammy day, and for an instant she thought with longing of the great drawing-room at Stormhill Manor and the huge fires that would be burning in the fireplaces.

  Oystermouth came into view, and Eline looked out at the sands, where the women would be working on the perches, hands raw and stinging from the salt of the seawater and the cold bite of the wind.

  She had worked on the perches only briefly, for she had been a failure at it, her hands, so deft at designing, lacking the skill for handling the oysters.

  When the train stopped, Eline alighted almost reluctantly. Her footsteps dragging, she made her way along the road that edged the sea and led to the gallery.

  The window, to her surprise, was empty of paintings. The door when she tried it was locked. With a sinking feeling, Eline realized that Calvin had closed the business down.