Surprised to be addressed so confidently and directly an ignorant Welsh lout, Lalage stared. But then, very coolly, she nodded. ‘Very well,’ she replied. She swept past him.
The parlour was a pretty room. The walls had been smoothly plastered, then painted — or stencilled — with a repeating pattern of blue fleurs de lys. The effect was of papering. Comfortable, upholstered chairs were arranged round an open fireplace. The brasswork on the mantelshelf winked at the pewter mugs adorning the small dresser in the corner. On the painted mortar floor was a large Indian carpet, of excellent quality.
‘Do you like this room?’ asked the farmer, who was standing behind Lalage.
‘Yes.’ Dark and shuttered though it was, the little parlour had a positively seductive air of comfort and warmth. In spite of herself, Lalage smiled. ‘I like it very much,’ she replied.
‘It was my mother's room.’ The farmer smiled too. ‘When there's a good fire, when the kettle's singing on the hob and the toast is fresh made, there's no better place to be.’
‘I don't suppose there is.’ Lalage shook her head. ‘Mr Morgan, I'll confess it now. I like your house. Or at any rate, I like this particular room. It more than makes up for the rusticity of the rest.’
Alex came back down the stairs. He glanced into the parlour, shrugged, then walked out into the yard. Motioning the farmer to follow, he strolled round the garden. As he walked, he spoke. When Lalage came out of the front door, she heard Alex laugh. ‘So,’ he said now, ‘provided Mrs Lowell agrees, we'll come to an arrangement.’
Then he saw his wife. ‘Shall we take the place, my dear?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Decidedly, Lalage nodded. ‘It's a charming house. I should like to live here.’
John Rhys Morgan smiled.
* * * *
He treated her so carefully. As if she were an invalid convalescent from a serious illness. One for whom a sudden shock or nervous upset might prove her undoing.
‘I'm not mad, Alex,’ she said one morning, as they sat at breakfast. ‘You said so yourself. There's no need to behave as if I were a lunatic, or a freak.’
Alex merely smiled. ‘Sukey?’ he called. ‘May we have more coffee? Some fresh toast?’
The Lowells’ own servants, lodged together in a Swansea boarding house until their employers found a new home, had arrived the previous week. So now, this household consisting of a small, pale, fair–haired master, his beautiful dark–eyed wife, their two rather comely female servants and a footman as black as the devil himself, was a source of fascinated curiosity to everyone in the district.
As far as most of the shepherds and farmers of North Gower were concerned, John Rhys Morgan's new tenants were a rum lot, not to be trusted an inch. Caspar in particular was an object of fear. The cythraul du — black devil — of enchantments and nightmares, he was now a tall, well–grown adolescent. His coal–black face, tightly–curling dark hair, huge brown eyes and white, white teeth combined to mark him out. He was a fiend, a creature from the burning lake. Meeting him out on errands for his mistress, older women crossed themselves and muttered protective charms.
But their daughters found him attractive. They eyed him flirtatiously, and dared one another to cross his path. One or two, bolder than the rest, actually grinned at him.
Sukey was alarmed. While in Swansea, she had initiated the boy into certain grown–up rites and rituals. She had even taken him into her bed, and let him discover some of the secrets of her body. Caspar was hers, not some Welsh trollop's.
‘But they're so dirty, child!’ she wailed, when Caspar told her Bronwen Powell and Angharad Evans had invited him to go walking after church on Sunday. ‘You don't want to bother with them! They're like the beasts. Backward, and stupid.’
‘Stupid, eh?’ Thoughtfully, Caspar picked his teeth. Bronwen Powell might be backward. Indeed, she did seem a bit of a goose. But she certainly wasn't dirty. Her complexion was cream and pink, smooth and delicate as the inside of a seashell. Angharad Evans's wild, red hair, emerald–green eyes and clear, transparent white skin made his pulse race.
But Sukey had a pretty face. Her figure was trim and neat. She need not be jealous of Bronwen Powell. The footman grinned. ‘Why don't you like the Welsh?’ he asked.
‘I told you. They're dirty. They smell.’
‘They look as clean as the English to me. You white people all smell the same.’
‘Nonsense.’ Sukey flounced off, to turn out the bedrooms, or so she said.
Caspar grinned. He loved Sukey dearly. When he was a terrified, bewildered child, whose only memories were confused nightmares of beatings, cold, hunger and loneliness, she had been kind. She had warmed and comforted him.
All the same, he liked to see her jealous. He knew he was a handsome man. Sukey was a pretty woman. He'd marry her some day. But not just yet.
The Lowells settled down. Deprived of any social life, for he did not want the company of shepherds or farmers, and his limited income did not permit him to meet the few English families in the area on anything like equal terms, Alex began to make a collection of flowers and butterflies. Gradually, he became something of an expert on the flora and lepidoptera of Gower. He even began to enjoy living here.
But Lalage did nothing but fret. She thought of Ellis a hundred times a day. Often and often, she picked up a pen, determined to write, to beseech his forgiveness, to be recalled from exile. If she closed her eyes, she could see his face. Feel his presence. If she shut her ears to the world, she could hear his voice. Was it possible to die of sorrow? Lalage thought it might be.
She longed for news of home. But there was none. Betty could tell her nothing. Her mother had died, and she was not on good terms with her brothers or sisters. In any case, none of them could read or write.
Searching for specimens, Alex strode across desolate moorlands. He scrambled up and down the stark sea cliffs. Sometimes, Lalage went with him. She trailed after him as he stalked butterflies. She lay with him on wet grass while he exclaimed over a new species of orchid or speedwell. Soon, she thought, he'll be mad. The very picture of a mumbling, wild–haired recluse. Living with him will deprive me of my reason, too.
* * * *
Their hurts untended, the two fire–raisers were locked in a filthy cellar. Fed only when someone remembered to push a bit of bread through the trapdoor communicating with the outside world, they had plenty of time to repent of their sins. It was a full week before the squire thought of them again, and decided to question them. After he'd heard anything they might wish to say, they could go to the municipal gaol. To await trial at the next Assize.
The cellar where the two men were confined was a malodorous underground pit. Dripping with damp, it was infested with vermin, and was not a good place in which to recuperate from the savage beating they had received. By day, a little light crept into the place. At night it was pitch dark. Then, rats came out and licked their blood.
Sometimes, curious villagers came, to stare through a narrow grating at the caged creatures within. But such was the esteem in which the squire was held that no one felt the least pity for their plight.
Having ridden over to the village and ordered their temporary release, Ellis had the men taken to the justice room. This was a chamber kept for the purpose of examining local petty criminals, and was on the ground floor of the local inn.
‘God in heaven!’ The justice stared at the men in disgust. Brought before the magistrate who'd sent them down once already, they cowered. But Ellis did not thunder curses, nor order further tortures. He merely covered his face with a handkerchief. ‘Tarrant?’ he barked, breathing through his mouth. ‘Tarrant! Get yourself in here! Are you responsible for this?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tarrant had indeed arranged for the men to be confined. Now he was expecting praise for his initiative. Swaggering slightly, he strolled into the room. Seeing the look on the squire's face, he stopped dead. He shuffled. He coughed. ‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘I thought — ’
‘Get the
m into the fresh air.’ Ellis scowled. ‘Good God, man. Look at them. Why weren't they sent to the local prison? Who gave you authority to keep them here?’
‘Well, your honour didn't tell anyone what to do. You hadn't signed your mittimus. So I thought — ’
‘Did you?’ Ellis glared. ‘Well, Tarrant — the next time you feel like thinking, apply your mind to some agricultural matter. Leave judicial affairs to me.’
But now, despite being removed to a slightly more salubrious place, the men were past help. Alive with vermin, their wounds were badly infected. Soon, a fatally high fever racked their bodies. Their fellow prisoners, usually more than anxious to relieve new arrivals of their valuables, refused to go near them. Left food and water but otherwise neglected, allowed neither wholesome air nor medical attention, both were dead long before they could be brought to trial.
‘It's better this way.’ Having searched his heart and conscience, James Tarrant found he'd acted in the best interests of all concerned. Now, complacently, he watched the sexton shovel earth over the two narrow paupers’ graves. ‘Dunno as I'd care to be strung up by a mob. That was what lay in store for this pair. No doubt about it.’
* * * *
Badly cut in the course of that dreadful night, Ellis's hand had eventually been cleaned and bound up. But, as Rebecca had predicted, the wound festered. It began to smell so horrible that even Ellis was concerned. Nevertheless, he refused to see a doctor. He insisted it would heal.
It did not. Eventually a foul, greenish matter filled the whole lesion. Then, one evening, as Rebecca changed the dressing, she was alarmed to see the palm was swollen like a puffball. Blackened, soft and rotting. She pressed the swelling, and found it gave beneath her touch. ‘This should be lanced,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, you must send for Mr Steele.’
‘There's no need for that.’ Snatching his hand away, Ellis scowled. ‘I've had cuts before. They've always mended. It doesn't hurt,’ he lied. ‘This time next week, it will be better.’
‘All the same, Mr Steele comes tomorrow. You'll see him then.’
‘I shan't.’
‘You shall!’
‘Rebecca, you forget yourself.’ Coldly, Ellis met her eyes. ‘As your husband, it is my place to command. Yours is to obey.’
‘Yes. I agree.’ Rebecca forced herself to be calm. ‘But I have a duty towards you, too. You seem set on a course which may end in your own destruction. I seek to divert you. To — ’
‘To know better than me. Is that what you mean?’ Ellis was angry now. He was shouting. ‘Well, Rebecca? Is it?’
‘No!’ Rebecca glared at him. ‘All I meant was — ’
‘That you will have your pleasure. That you will defy me. Decide what is best for me, deny me the — ’
‘Ellis, you're a fool.’ Rebecca turned away. ‘Do as you wish. Suffer if you must. I'm going to bed.’
She walked out of the parlour and into the hallway. But then, seeing the butler emerge from the dining room, she collared him. ‘Simmons!’ she hissed. ‘Come here.’
‘Yes, madam?’ Simmons had heard his master shouting, and now he looked at his mistress askance. ‘What is it?’
‘I want you to go over to Feldon. Call at Mr Steele's house, and ask him to wait on Mr Darrow first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Ah.’ Simmons had heard what Ellis thought of seeing Mr Steele. Now, sensibly, he demurred. ‘Well, madam — ’
‘Now, Simmons. Go now!’
‘I — ’
‘No matter.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘Simmons,’ she whispered, ‘did you overhear Mr Darrow talking just now?’
‘Well actually, madam — ’
‘Of course you did. The whole house must have heard him.’ Rebecca grimaced. ‘Simmons, you know how passionate your master can be. How angry in his own defence. Especially when no one has attacked him!
‘Think, man. Just think. How many times has Mr Darrow gone out riding in the rain, and returned home with his clothes soaked through? Then refused to change them? How often has he taken cold, in consequence?’
‘But — ’
‘Listen to me.’ Rebecca's voice was still low, but it was also urgent now. ‘Listen well. Mr Darrow's hurt is grievous. I have seen such wounds before. I know how dangerous neglect of them can be.
‘My husband needs to see a surgeon! If he does not have the necessary care, I am afraid he will take a fever. Simmons, I am about to become a mother. I do not wish to become a widow first.’
‘No.’ Meeting Rebecca's eyes, Simmons nodded. ‘I'll go now,’ he said. ‘But if Mr Darrow asks for me — ’
‘I'll tell him where you are. That I sent you there.’ Weakly, Rebecca smiled. ‘Go quickly,’ she added. ‘Before my husband overhears us, and countermands what I've said.’
* * * *
Mr Steele examined the hand. Gravely, he shook his head.
‘There, Becky.’ Imagining he was about to be reprimanded for wasting the surgeon's time, Ellis grinned. ‘I knew quite well this gentleman would have a wasted morning. Mr Steele — I'm sorry to have called you here unnecessarily. Will you have a glass of wine before you go?’
‘Thank you, sir. I will.’ Mr Steele sat down. ‘You should have one yourself, perhaps,’ he added. ‘As for Mrs Darrow here — will she join us, too?’
Told to fetch refreshment, Simmons closed the door behind him.
Mr Steele had attended the Darrow family for twenty years or more. He had bound up the results of scores of riding accidents, then treated the fevers which frequently ensued. Having tried in vain to persuade Ellis's father to moderate his drinking, he was well aware that the son, though on the whole a far more reasonable man, was in some ways just as stubborn as the old squire.
Taking the tray from the butler, he poured three glasses of port wine. ‘I'm sorry, sir,’ he said, as he handed Ellis a glass. ‘If I'd been called in a week ago, I could have lanced the palm. Let out the humours, and cauterised the wound. But now, sir — well, I'm afraid I can do nothing. The hand must come off.’
‘Come off?’ Almost choking on his wine, Ellis stared. ‘It's just a cut!’ he cried. ‘For God's sake, man! If all doctors went around hacking off the limbs of every man who scratched himself, this country would contain nothing but cripples.’
‘You haven't merely scratched yourself.’ Irritated into plain speaking, the surgeon met his patient's eyes. ‘Mr Darrow, that cut goes through to the bone. The wound is putrid. If nothing is done, the whole hand will mortify. The taint will spread throughout the body. Fever will result.’
‘I've had fevers before. You know that.’ With a dismissive sniff, Ellis poured himself more wine. ‘What's a fever? Nothing. The physician is called in. He bleeds the patient, he prescibes medicines, looks grave — but soon all is well again.’
‘In this case, all the cupping, dropping and bleeding in the world will not avail.’ The doctor took Ellis's glass. ‘Believe me, sir. You'll die raving. You'll run mad with pain, and you'll expire cursing the God who made you. Who gave you the life it seems you are too stubborn to wish to preserve.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Glancing towards his wife, Ellis sighed. Shrugging his shoulders, he accepted defeat. ‘Well, then,’ he muttered, ‘you may as well set about your task. Have you instruments with you here?’
‘Sir, I'm an old man.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘I'd take half an hour. Perhaps more. Mr Darrow, you must permit me call in a colleague.’
‘To give a second opinion?’
‘No, sir! In your case, the opinion of every doctor in the land would be exactly the same.’ Mr Steele shrugged in enquiry. ‘Well, Mr Darrow? Have I your permission to send for a younger man?’
‘I'll see him tomorrow.’ Pale now, and unwilling to meet Rebecca's eyes, Ellis looked down at the floor. ‘How long, do you suppose — ’
‘He'll take twenty minutes. No more.’ Mr Steele himself sighed now. ‘Mr Darrow, I think you ought to see him today. Further delay might well prove dangerous. Fatal, even. I
'll send my boy over to Birmingham at once.’
* * * *
‘Would you like me to stay?’ Wishing with all her heart that she had flouted Ellis's wishes and sent for the doctor a week ago, Rebecca touched her husband's shoulder. ‘Dear Ellis, shall I stay?’
‘Could you bear it?’ His face a dull, lifeless grey, Ellis's dark eyes were blank with dread. ‘Becky, you're pregnant. You might faint. After all, you've no experience — ’
‘But I have. Once, at the factory, a boy caught his arm in a piece of machinery. It mangled his hand. I had to do something for him. Then, when the surgeon came, I — I helped.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Ellis, this will be very hard for you.’ Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, Rebecca kissed her husband's brow. ‘You'll suffer, and I shall hate it. But I shan't scream. Nor pass out at the sight of blood. So, if it will comfort you to have me here, of course I'll stay.’
‘Thank you, Becky.’ Wretchedly, Ellis shrugged. ‘You were right. I am a fool.’
‘I'm the stupid one.’ Rebecca began to cry. ‘I'll never forgive myself!’ she sobbed. ‘I knew quite well what needed to be done, and I ought to have done it.’
* * * *
Mr Steele's friend came over from Birmingham that same afternoon. A surgeon at the new General Hospital there, he was a stout, brisk, lively young fellow who liked an outing, and today he thoroughly enjoyed his pleasant ride through the green Warwickshire countryside. He brought with him his new assistant, a lumbering great brute of a lad with shoulders like a pugilist. Gerard's job was to hold the patient down.
Arriving at the Dower house, the surgeon entrusted Gerard with his gelding and his bag, and dispatched him to the kitchens, with instructions to get himself something to drink. The surgeon himself would go in by the front door.
Invited into the sitting room of the Dower House, he beamed at his patient. The niceties of introduction were soon over. Mr Steele's diagnosis was confirmed.
‘Well, sir?’ Taking off his coat, the lapels and cuffs of which were stiff with dried blood, the surgeon dropped it on a chair. ‘All prepared?’
A Green Bay Tree Page 23
