A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  ‘I — ’

  ‘So you decided to kill me. Well, my darling, why should I live? I'm all but ruined. My wife — whom I adore — detests me. Ellis despises me, which is worse.’ Alex sighed. ‘Lally, I should thank you. You've made things easy for me now.’

  ‘Have I?’ Lalage chewed her lower lip. ‘Throw that stuff on the back of the fire,’ she said. ‘I'll fetch you some fresh.’

  ‘Laced with double the strength?’

  ‘Laced with nothing at all.’ Now Lalage's face was white as chalk. ‘Alex,’ she whispered, ‘you won't inform on me, will you?’

  ‘Would it matter?’

  ‘Yes!’ Lalage shuddered. ‘Women can still be burned, you know. For the murder of her husband, a woman can be strangled on a gibbet. Then burned alive.’

  ‘Oh, darling! Surely not?’

  ‘It's true! When I was a child, a woman in the village stabbed her husband. During a quarrel. They took her to Warwick. Oh, Alex! When the flames reached her, she was still alive. The hangman hadn't even pulled the cord tight.’

  ‘I shan't inform on you. I shall die. It's the least I can do.’ Alex grimaced. ‘Why do you hate me?’ he asked. ‘Is it simply because of the child?’

  Lalage sniffed. ‘That, and a few other things.’

  ‘What else have I done? Or not done?’

  ‘Alex, you raped me! Raped me, then bought me. Like a little black slave.’

  ‘Did I?’ Alex shook his head. ‘You can't forgive me for it?’

  ‘No woman can forgive violation! I cannot forgive, nor forget.’

  ‘Indeed? I'm surpised to hear that.’ Alex shrugged. ‘I thought we were happy together. Oh, I don't deny it. On that first occasion, I was certainly a brute. But I thought I'd more than made amends.’

  ‘Did you?’ Lalage stood up. ‘You're tired,’ she said, tonelessly. ‘Come to bed. Lie down beside me. I'll warm your cold bones tonight.’

  As they lay together, Alex looked into Lalage's eyes. ‘A knife in the ribs,’ he murmured. ‘A dagger. A bludgeon. A couple of felons, paid to do your bidding. Couldn't you have arranged it? Why did you decide to torture me?’

  ‘Oh, Alex!’ Lalage began to sob. ‘Alex, I'm sorry. Don't die. Please don't die!’

  * * * *

  But, by the end of the week, Alex Lowell had death in his eyes. Lalage knew she would have to think of her future.

  Her relations hated her. She had no friends. Her companions in prosperity had deserted her long ago.

  The allowance from Ellis, drawn on a London bank — that would still be paid. Lalage could forge Alex's signature. She could, if necessary, write a whole letter in his hand. Ellis would never visit his sister and brother–in– law. He did not even know where they were.

  Whatever happened, she would not starve to death.

  Chapter 22

  The following morning, Lalage threw the remainder of the poison away. Then she went out for a walk. All through the rest of that week and well into the next, she was out of the house as much as possible.

  She left Alex sleeping the sound slumber of one drugged into complete insensibility. If he slept — if no additional strain were placed on his weakened constitution — Betty's draughts would, Lalage hoped, help him recover his broken health.

  She skirted green fields, she walked along wide, sandy beaches. She scaled high, dangerous cliffs and clambered over wet, slippery rocks. For the first time, she studied the lie of the land. The contrast between North and South Gower, between the rich, arable landscape of the south and the marshy grasslands of the more desolate north, could not fail to impress.

  South Gower was a Saxon shore. In its churchyards, she found English names, memorials and gravestones confidently inscribed with the language of the invaders. North Gower, however, was steadfastly Welsh. It seemed an older, more barbarous land. Lalage now decided that, English though she was, she much preferred the north.

  She frequently saw her landlord. Talking to a shepherd, striding down a lane ahead of her, sometimes he spoke to her, sometimes he appeared not to notice she was there. He never engaged her in conversation. Merely bidding her good day, he would touch his hat to her, then walk on.

  One morning, as she skirted a ploughed field, she saw him coming towards her. Was she on his land just now? She didn't actually know. As she watched him draw nearer, she looked at him.

  How old was he, exactly? Rather younger than herself, for sure. Twenty two, perhaps? Twenty three? Critically, Lalage studied him. Today, he was wearing ancient fustian breeches, a black coat and a battered felt hat. His dirty boots had seen much better days. But then, she reflected, no farmer went out to the fields in his Sunday best.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Morgan.’ Politely, Lalage smiled.

  ‘Mrs Lowell.’ John Rhys Morgan nodded.

  Lalage was blocking his path. If he wanted to pass her, he would have to side–step through the mud, or wait until she moved aside.

  She stood where she was. ‘I find it a little warmer today,’ she hazarded. After all, she reasoned, it wouldn't hurt him to make a little ordinary, workaday conversation. ‘The air is softer, and the wind seems far less bitter than it did.’

  ‘It's a westerly. They're always mild.’ The farmer glanced up at the sky. ‘We'll have rain by evening, though. You can depend on that.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘If I were you, I'd stay inland today.’ Gravely, the farmer looked at her. ‘Take your walk on the common, or along the lanes.’

  ‘Thank you for your advice.’ Lalage stepped aside. ‘Well, I expect you're very busy today.’

  ‘I am. So I'll bid you good morning.’ Touching his hat to her, the farmer walked on.

  Looking after him, Lalage frowned. It was a pity he couldn't spare even ten minutes to chat. She wondered about him now. In a rough, loutish sort of way, he was quite a good–looking young man. Why was he not married? She'd heard he lived with a housekeeper. Did he take her to his bed?

  She'd have to ask Sukey. For, having ingratiated herself with some of the village trollops and even learned a little Welsh, the housemaid apparently knew all about him.

  She'd informed Betty he was a holy terror for girls. He was said to have a kept woman in Swansea, an occasional mistress in Oxwich, and an understanding with a shepherd's daughter, whose father was his tenant, so couldn't object.

  * * * *

  ‘Sukey's just a tattler,’ said Betty sourly, as she dressed Lalage's hair the next morning. ‘She believes anything she hears. How is Mr Lowell today? Any better, do you think?’

  ‘No.’ Lalage had repented of her cruelty. Now, she would have given the earth, the moon and all the stars above to have her husband restored to health. Miserably, she sniffed. ‘I'll stay with him today,’ she said. ‘We'll get him up. It's sunny in the parlour. If we wrap him up well, he'll not take cold, sitting by the fire.’

  Roused at last, but only with difficulty, Alex was dressed, then helped down the stairs. ‘It's not worth it, you know,’ he whispered. He stumbled against the skirting board, barking his shin. ‘I'd much rather sleep.’

  ‘Oh, Alex!’ Lalage felt her heart contract. ‘You can't give up now. You've been very ill — but I'm sure you'll get better. Betty's medicine — ’

  ‘Is extremely wholesome. Yes, indeed.’ Alex pressed Betty's hand. ‘Your sleeping draughts are excellent,’ he murmured. ‘Not bitter, either. Not at all.’

  Lalage had the grace to blush.

  * * * *

  The following afternoon, Alex was fretful. Coughing and sniffing, he sat close to the fire, fidgeting and muttering to himself.

  He did not want company. When Lalage offered to read to him, he told her to go for a walk. When she demurred, he grew petulant. Why could she never oblige him? So, to please him, she agreed to take just an hour's stroll.

  She arrived back at the farmhouse to find Sukey hopping about on the doorstep, looking out for her. The maid was in tears. As Lalage asked what was the matter, Caspar appeared behind
her. Taking his mistress inside, he bade her sit down by the fire.

  ‘What's the matter?’ repeated Lalage. Anxiously, she looked from the footman to the maid. ‘Where is Mr Lowell?’

  ‘Upstairs.’ Caspar bit his lip. ‘He was tired. So Betty and I took him back to bed.’

  Now, Betty appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh, madam!’ she cried. Her face drawn and white, she was sobbing. ‘Oh, my dear madam! Whatever will you do now?’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Lalage's own face grew pale. ‘Betty, dear?’

  ‘We took him to bed.’ Still Betty wept. ‘We left him sleeping, as we thought, but a few minutes later he called out. I went up to see what he wanted.

  ‘I found him in his chair, gazing out of the window. He looked at me. He smiled. He asked me to stay awhile. He didn't want to be alone, he said.’

  Now Betty's sobs were choking her. ‘He was such a kind person,’ she wailed. ‘Oh, madam! Such a sweet–natured, considerate gentleman!’

  ‘Betty, what happened?’

  ‘I sat on the window seat. I had my needlework in my pocket, so I took it out and began to sew. Mr Lowell closed his eyes.

  ‘I stitched a whole border. I thought, soon it will be time to fetch the lamps. Sukey is supposed to bring them, but she often forgets. So I got up, to call.

  ‘As I passed Mr Lowell's chair, he groaned. He shook a little, but then he was still. I touched his hand — and there was no pulse! No life at all! Nothing!’

  ‘I see.’ Lalage blinked. But then she looked at Betty. She met her eyes. There, along with the grief, she saw — what?

  Disgust?

  Suspicion?

  Anger?

  All three?

  She knows, thought Lalage. Wincing, she looked away. Betty knows what I've done. Will she betray me? Will she ever use it against me?

  * * * *

  Lalage grieved. For a month, six weeks, two months and more, guilt and sorrow deprived her of sleep and took away what little appetite she had. Had she been confronted with evidence of her crime, she would have confessed everything. Then gone quietly to her execution.

  To avoid Betty, she went out. The weather was fine, so she walked for miles, wearing herself out.

  The widow often came across John Rhys Morgan. Whatever he was doing — talking to a herdsman, inspecting a drainage ditch, checking on the progress of a new crop — he would break off, and touch his hat to her. He would then ask, very softly and kindly, if there was anything he might do, either to help, or on her behalf.

  ‘Nothing. There's nothing,’ she would reply. Then walk on.

  When Alex had been buried for nearly three months, the landlord called at the farmhouse. Lalage was surprised. The village people had been to make their condolences long ago. Why John Rhys Morgan chose to come now, she couldn't imagine.

  She received him in the parlour. Her pale face and thin figure accentuated by her mourning black, Lalage looked as if she would shortly be worm's meat herself. Black ribbons fluttered against her gaunt cheeks. Black crape clung to her bony chest. All in all, she was the very picture of a grieving relict.

  ‘Mr Morgan?’ She offered him a near–transparent, skeletal hand. ‘How kind of you to call. Will you sit down?’

  John Rhys Morgan smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lowell,’ he replied. ‘I will.’

  Both seated now, they looked at one another. ‘Tea?’ offered Lalage.

  ‘Please. No cream, thank you.’

  Betty brought in the tray. Lalage poured out two cups of tea, one of which she handed to her guest.

  He drank a little, then put the cup down. ‘You're still grieving, I see.’ His voice was soft and caressing, warm like new milk. ‘You're very sad.’

  ‘That's only natural, isn't it?’ Chancing to meet his gaze, Lalage blushed. She looked away. ‘When a husband dies, of course his widow mourns.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ John Rhys Morgan toyed with his teaspoon. ‘Especially if she has no one to console her in her sorrow. You never had a child?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘You wished for children?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tears coming into her eyes, Lalage hung her head. ‘Indeed I did.’

  ‘I'm sorry for you.’ The farmer sighed. ‘So very sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lalage sighed too. But then, glancing up again, she rallied. She looked the farmer full in the face. ‘Mr Morgan,’ she began, ‘you have no children. You're not even married. Why is that?’

  ‘Why?’ The farmer shrugged. ‘I'm waiting for the right woman to come along,’ he replied. ‘That's all.’

  ‘Waiting, you say?’ Lalage shook her head. ‘So she'll simply appear, will she? As if sent from heaven? If I were you, I'd go and look for her myself.’

  ‘Go a–hunting, you mean. Perhaps I should.’ The farmer smiled. ‘Don't you worry about me,’ he said. ‘When the time comes, I'll marry. My wife will be special, you see. She'll be a witch.’

  ‘Really?’ Nervously, Lalage laughed. ‘Well, Mr Morgan. How very singular.’

  ‘Singular?’ John Rhys Morgan frowned. ‘That's a word I don't know.’

  ‘Odd, is what I meant.’ Again, Lalage shook her head. ‘Strange.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The farmer nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it's very strange. I don't understand it myself. But it's so.’

  Lalage narrowed her eyes. The man was mad. A pity, for he was a fine–looking fellow. Very dark, tall for a Welshman, he was heavy in build, but carried no fat at all. On his strong features, a weatherbeaten complexion was attractive. Sunburn was acceptable on someone who looked half–gypsy anyway.

  She felt inclined to tease him a little. ‘How does one recognise a witch?’ she asked.

  ‘It's difficult, I admit.’ The farmer's eyes twinkled. ‘But there are some little signs.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘She'll have eyes like pools of ink. Black hair. Red lips. A pale face, but when she's roused the blood will set it on fire. She'll have a manner which enchants and delights. She'll draw a man like a moth to a candle flame.’

  ‘I see.’ Lalage was intrigued now. ‘You yourself have dark eyes. Your hair is black.’

  ‘True enough.’ The farmer finished his tea. Folding his arms, he grinned. ‘Tell me, Mrs Lowell. When you look in a glass, what do you see?’

  ‘I — I have a great many things to do today.’ Feeling her cheeks and temples glow, Lalage stood up. ‘Mr Morgan, it was most kind of you to visit. I hope you'll call another time?’

  ‘Do you invite me?’ John Rhys Morgan looked into her eyes. ‘You'd like me to come?’

  ‘I would.’ Lalage nodded. She offered him her hand. ‘Yes, Mr Morgan. I'd like it very much.’

  * * * *

  John Rhys Morgan knew perfectly well that he had only to be seen walking with the widow once, and all kinds of gossip would begin. So, when he called one Sunday afternoon and asked if she would like to stroll with him on the Burrows, his fate was sealed.

  He meant to marry, certainly. Now he had found his bride. But what a bride! This English woman was old. She was a widow, and childless to boot. The creature was barren as a stony field. She'd admitted it herself.

  But, from the first moment he saw her, he had wanted her. Now she was free, he meant to have her. A moth to a candle flame.

  Might she yet breed? It didn't seem likely. She was too thin. Even if she did conceive, she would not carry well. If at all. Giving birth would probably kill her. He needed sons and daughters to his name.

  They walked on the soft, dry sand. They skirted great, rolling dunes, on which grew sharp, grey–green marram grass. She took his arm. Noticing she was stumbling, he stopped. He asked if she'd hurt herself. ‘My shoes are full of sand,’ she replied. She grimaced. ‘It's hard to walk.’

  ‘Stand still. Now, lean on my shoulder here.’ Kneeling before her, he took off one shoe, emptied it, replaced it on her foot. He did the same for the other. ‘There,’ he said, smiling up at her. ‘Better?’

  ‘Much.’ L
alage smiled back. ‘May we go down to the flatter part of the beach?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Where her hand had rested, his shoulder burned. ‘We'll walk along the shoreline,’ he said. ‘The whole of Llangynnydd can watch us!’

  At dusk, he took her home again. ‘May I call tomorrow?’ he asked as Betty, exclaiming at the length of time Lalage had been gone, practically dragged her mistress through the door.

  ‘Do.’ Lalage offered him her hand. ‘I'll look forward to it.’

  * * * *

  He visited every day. Now, it was clear to everyone that he meant to marry the widow. To everyone except the widow herself. For, racked with guilt and misery, Lalage hardly thought of the young Welshman at all.

  But then, one fine evening, she went to visit Alex's grave. Walking through the little churchyard, she came across a cluster of identical granite tombstones, each one engraved with a figure of a mermaid. Stopping to read the inscriptions, she found these were memorials to the Morgan family. She thought of her landlord then.

  She conceived a desire to see him at home.

  Reflecting on the fact that he had now visited her at least a dozen times, she decided it would be perfectly proper — indeed, desirable — to repay his calls. So, she made her way down the lane, walked briskly past her own home and, five minutes later, was within sight of the grey stone cottage where her landlord lived.

  She arrived there just as John Rhys Morgan was coming home from work. He and his cowman were strolling towards her, talking rapidly in Welsh. The farmer was frowning — but then, shaking his head, he laughed. He clapped William Parry on the back. Then he saw Lalage.

  Turning to his companion, he murmured what must have been good night. Then he smiled. ‘Good evening, Mrs Lowell.’ Evidently quite pleased to see her, he held out his hand in welcome. ‘I'm about to have my supper,’ he said. ‘Will you take something, too?’

  ‘I — well, perhaps a cup of tea.’ Her appetite was almost non–existent these days, and Lalage knew she would be physically sick if confronted with solid farmhouse fare. ‘Just some tea.’