A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  ‘Come in, then.’ Pushing open the cottage door, John Rhys Morgan ushered his guest inside.

  * * * *

  A bachelor, and an orphan, the farmer was not quite alone in the world. He had a brother. An apothecary's assistant, David Morgan lived in Cardiff.

  But John Rhys Morgan had no female relatives. None at all. There were no women of his own blood to make his fireside companionable, or beguile his long evenings of rural solitude. Alone except for a housekeeper, a middle– aged woman who had been his mother's maid, he spent his free time reading.

  He read anything. Stock reports, broadsheets, gazettes, political pamphlets, newspapers — all printed publications held something of interest for him. He even bought books, so was probably as well informed as anyone in the area. Better, perhaps. He was able to hold a conversation with the parson, even to argue with that reverend gentleman.

  Sometimes he walked into Swansea for the day, and these harmless excursions gave rise to the theory that he must keep a woman there. Two women. Several, even.

  But, although he had a rake's reputation, his housekeeper was very surprised to see her master lead the English woman into his own house. What did he mean by it? So, the village gossips insisted he meant to marry her. But they weren't married yet. Mrs Lowell was said to be a fine lady. Not a harlot, who visited men at home.

  ‘Well, John Rhys?’ demanded Bethan Davies. ‘What's she doing here? Did you bring her along? Or did madam chase you up to your own front door?’

  ‘Meindia di dy fusnes.’ Well aware that Bethan was perfectly capable of taking her broom and sweeping Lalage right out of the cottage, the farmer glowered. He threw his coat on to a chair. ‘Dere â dishgled o de. A shapa hi!’

  Bethan glowered back. So she should mind her own business, should she? Bring some tea. Get a move on, too! The housekeeper drew herself up. She folded her arms. Oti hi'n aros yn hir?’ she demanded, coldly. ‘Is she staying long?’ she repeated, with emphasis. In case the Saxon woman should imagine she was welcome here.

  Lalage blushed.

  Bethan scowled.

  John Rhys Morgan glared. ‘Mrs Lowell has come to pay a call,’ he said. ‘She'll stay as long as she pleases.’ Nodding to Lalage to be seated, the farmer went into the kitchen. The servant followed him.

  From the doorway, Bethan Davies looked again at Lalage. ‘So. You bring your fancy woman here, do you?’ she demanded.

  John Rhys said nothing. He began to wash his hands.

  ‘You bring her into your very own home. Then you expect me — ’

  ‘To bid her welcome and offer her some tea. Yes, that's what I expect.’

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ Bethan bridled. ‘Well, if your mother were alive today, she'd — ’

  ‘She'd offer Mrs Lowell the best chair. Then tell you to fill the kettle. Bethan, you're an impertinent old woman. Stop arguing with your betters, and fetch the tray.’

  But Bethan stood her ground. She went on grumbling. Soon, her laboured English gave way to voluble, fluid Welsh. Standing at the dresser washing his face and neck, John Rhys Morgan gave as good as he got.

  Lalage heard his boots clatter on the flagstones. Then, still in his shirtsleeves, he strode back into the little parlour.

  ‘Well then, Mrs Lowell.’ He smiled now. ‘Some tea, yes? Bethan!’

  ‘What?’ Appearing in the doorway, the servant glowered. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Tea for the lady! A brysia!’

  ‘Don't you tell me to hurry up.’ But Bethan knew when she was beaten. Muttering, she shuffled off.

  John Rhys Morgan sat down by the fire, opposite his guest. ‘It's a pleasant evening for a walk,’ he said, equably. ‘When you've had your tea, I'll see you back home. If I may.’

  ‘I'd appreciate that. Oh!’ As Bethan crashed a trayful of tea things on to a table nearby, Lalage jumped. ‘But please, Mr Morgan. Do have your supper first.’

  ‘I'll have it later.’ The farmer beamed at his guest. ‘Mrs Lowell, the kettle's singing. Will you make tea?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Lalage smiled too.

  * * * *

  He met her again one evening, later that same week. She was taking a favourite walk, across the sands at Rhosili.

  Falling into step with her, he pushed his hands into his breeches pockets. He began to hum a lilting Welsh air.

  ‘What's that called?’ asked Lalage.

  ‘Fy mabi tlws i. It's a — what's the word, now? Oh, yes. A lullaby.’ The farmer looked at her. ‘Do you mind if I walk with you?’

  ‘I don't mind at all.’

  ‘That's good.’

  Together, they strolled on. Soon they reached a rocky outcrop. Sitting down on a boulder, the farmer motioned to Lalage to sit beside him. ‘You're a wicked woman, you know,’ he said, casually. ‘Very wicked indeed.’

  ‘Am I?’ Astonished, Lalage stared. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, why do you think?’ Picking up a pebble, he flung it far out to sea. ‘Your sins are scarlet. If you were caught, they'd hang you. Or even burn you alive.’

  ‘Don't be insolent!’ Lalage glared at him. ‘You ignorant lout, how dare you speak to me like this! I've done nothing. Nothing at all!’

  ‘It's all there, you know. Written on your face. I can read it clear as day.’ Calmly, the farmer shrugged. ‘You're evil. You're brave, you're passionate — but you're wicked, too. You've lied, you've betrayed.’ He shrugged again. ‘You've even killed.’

  ‘Nonsense! I — ’

  ‘You can't help it.’ Sighing, John Rhys Morgan shook his head. ‘Poor soul, you're to be pitied. It wasn't your fault they gave you devil's milk. Your foster mother lay with Satan himself.’

  ‘You're mad. Insane.’ Lalage wanted to weep. The tears gathered, then began to flow. ‘I'm g–going home now,’ she sobbed. ‘No! Don't come with me. Don't even speak to me. Ever again!’

  She struggled to her feet. But, as she did so, the farmer caught her arm. ‘Don't fight your destiny,’ he whispered, his eyes glittering. ‘Marry me!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me, witch. Marry me. Be my wife.’

  ‘Your wife?’ Lalage sobbed harder. ‘I'm not treacherous,’ she wept. ‘I'm not wicked. I'm not a liar, either. You m–mustn't call me a witch!’

  ‘I'll call you Lali, then.’ Reaching out to her, the farmer touched her face. ‘Lali, my darling? Will you marry me?’

  Lali? Lalage tried it on her tongue. This was enchantment indeed. Lali. She wanted to hear him say it again. For this wasn't the plain English Lally. It wasn't a debased version of the Greek Lalage. It was a new name. A Welsh name. Her own.

  ‘Well, Lali?’ he demanded, breaking into her thoughts. ‘You don't mind that name, I hope?’

  ‘I — I like it very much.’ Her colour high, Lalage looked away. ‘But if I've really done all these things of which you accuse me, why do you wish to marry me? If I've committed murder, how do you know you'll be safe?’

  ‘Oh, but you'll love me.’ John Rhys smiled. ‘You'll adore me, heart and soul — you'll not harm a single hair of my head.’ He took her hands in his. ‘Well, cariad? May I kiss you?’

  Lalage stared at him. ‘You think I mean to accept you?’ she asked.

  ‘I know it,’ he replied.

  * * * *

  ‘You won't need all your servants,’ he told her, as they walked on the sands, the wind from the Atlantic tugging at their hair. Today, it had even burned a little red into Lalage's pale cheeks. ‘So. We'll live in your house. Bethan will come in every day. She'll arrange for a girl from the village to do the rough.’

  ‘Very well.’ Still bemused, Lalage nodded her agreement. ‘As it happens, Caspar and Sukey came to talk to me last night. They wish to marry.’

  ‘Do they, indeed?’

  ‘Yes. I was surprised, too.’ Lalage sighed. ‘She's six or seven years older than him. My poor Caspar. He's only a child.’

  ‘But old enough to know his own mind?’

  �
��I doubt it.’ Lalage shook her head. ‘I expect she seduced him. So now he feels obliged to her.’

  ‘Where will they go?’

  ‘To Swansea, they said, to get situations there. That's what Sukey intends.’

  ‘What about Betty?’

  ‘She must stay with me.’

  ‘Ah.’ John Rhys Morgan shrugged. ‘Well, I expect she'll be useful. She can learn to make cheese.’

  * * * *

  The wedding was in May. By July, Lali Morgan had been transformed.

  She put on a little flesh. This suited her. Once again, she had a woman's figure —albeit a slight, insubstantial one. Leaving her hair unpowdered and undressed, she pinned it up in a simple pleat. She folded away her silks and satins, and now wore gowns of plain Lancashire cotton. As befitted a modest matron who was also a respectable farmer's wife, she wore a white cambric handkerchief, which concealed her bosom and kept the sun off the back of her neck.

  Betty was disgusted. She loved to see Lalage resplendent in satin and lace, and had spent many happy hours powdering, painting and titivating this most beautiful of living dolls. Now Lalage was no longer a walking skeleton, Betty longed to dress her up again. To coil her lovely hair. To lace her slim but pretty figure into the softest, most diaphanous of silks. To paint her sweet face. Then to show off her handiwork to an admiring world.

  But it was not to be. Evidently, John Rhys Morgan didn't approve of other men gawping at his wife. Nor did he wish his wife to attract their attention or their stares. He would never have permitted Lalage to go out in pretty little kidskin shoes which left her ankles unprotected. Or in gowns which exposed her slender shoulders and had bodices cut so low that her breasts were on public display. From now on, stout boots and pintucked cotton shifts, rough woollen mantuas and twill coats would be the rule.

  * * * *

  But, as summer became autumn, became winter, as the year turned again and spring bloomed afresh, even Betty could see Lalage was happy. Happier than she'd ever been. Once half– crazed by guilt and sorrow, now she was relaxed. Contented. At peace.

  ‘You may have that.’ Sorting out her old clothes, Lalage tossed a beautiful blue silk sacque aside. ‘This, too.’ A mauve satin morning–gown fell to the floor.

  ‘Oh, madam!’ The blue silk was beautiful. Betty had coveted it for years. But when would she wear it now? She could hardly stroll to church in watered taffeta, when her mistress wore black serge or brown homespun. She sighed. She could sell it, perhaps. In Swansea, it would fetch a very good price.

  Lalage became a real farmer's wife. She kept hens, and learned to milk the placid Welsh cows. She fed and cosseted the calves, who had been separated from their mothers, but were being reared for stock.

  This last was a favourite chore. She loved to stroke the little creatures’ soft, velvety heads. To have them butt and nuzzle her. To feel a rough tongue rasping her fingers, as it sucked off the gruel.

  Her health was better than it had ever been. She had a spring in her step and her complexion glowed. At last, Lalage had found bliss.

  But then, one blue morning in late August, she woke up feeling very ill. There was a dull pain her in her stomach and a catch in her throat. Her head throbbed painfully. Crawling out of bed, she reached the washstand just in time to vomit into the china basin. ‘John!’ she wailed, between bringing up great mouthfuls of bile, ‘John, wake up. I'm ill!’

  ‘What's the matter?’ In the cool morning half–light, John Rhys Morgan blinked his eyes. Waking properly, he sat up. ‘Lali? What's wrong?’

  ‘I've been poisoned!’ Sobbing and choking, retching again but bringing up only watery catarrh now, Lalage cried harder. ‘Oh, John! I'm going to die!’

  He was beside her then, holding her narrow shoulders. ‘It's all right,’ he soothed. He stroked her hair, smoothing it back from her brow. Reaching for a cloth, he wiped her mouth. ‘Any better now?’

  ‘A little.’ Still distressed, still terrifed, Lalage covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, God! I'm not ready to die!’

  ‘It's far too early in the day to talk about dying. So come on. Get back to bed.’ He smoothed the sheets. He plumped her pillows, then drew up the blankets, tucking them round her shivering form. ‘Comfortable?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Miserably, Lalage sniffed.

  ‘Shall I fetch you something to drink?’

  ‘No. Don't do that. I'd only be sick again.’ Lalage clung to him. ‘Don't leave me!’ she cried.

  He took her in his arms. ‘Shall I come back to bed?’ he asked.

  ‘Better not. You'll be late for milking.’

  ‘Oh, Huw and William can manage very well without me.’ Letting her go, John Rhys took Lalage's hands. He held them between his own. ‘So, Lali. How long have you been feeling ill?’

  ‘I've had a headache all week.’ Still sniffing, Lalage shrugged. ‘Yesterday morning, I felt sick — but I didn't bring anything up. Today, though — ’

  ‘Do you still feel sick?’

  ‘Yes!’ Lalage began to sob. ‘I'm dying! My head aches. My ankles are swollen. I've pins and needles everywhere, and my chest is so sore!’

  ‘Dear me.’ Releasing her hands, John Rhys Morgan stroked her temples. ‘Cool enough,’ he observed. ‘No fever there. When did you last bleed?’

  ‘Bleed? I don't know. I can't remember. Betty always deals with all that.’

  ‘From now on, learn to mark the almanac yourself.’ Reassuringly, the farmer smiled. ‘Well, Lali. I think I know what this must be.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can't you guess?’

  ‘The smallpox? The quinsy? My throat's very sore.’

  ‘That's from retching.’ John Rhys shook his head. ‘Well, then. Shall we have your nightgown off now?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just to confirm my suspicions.’

  ‘Suspicions? Oh, God!’

  ‘Hush.’ He undid her buttons. Slipping the garment from her shoulders, he smiled his satisfaction. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Quite beautiful. Don't you agree?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at yourself.’ John Rhys grinned. ‘You're not ill. Not at all. Look!’

  Lalage followed his gaze. Then she grinned too. For the first time in her life, she had a grown woman's figure. She had full, heavy breasts.

  John Rhys kissed her. ‘You're going to have a baby,’ he cried. ‘Clever Lali! We're going to have a son.’

  Chapter 23

  For more than a year after the fire, Ellis remained extremely weak. He took cold too easily, suffered from recurrent fits of shivering — and even the slightest exertion left him breathless and exhausted. Frequently, Rebecca feared he would die. That her daughter too would grow up without knowing a father's love.

  But, although his health did not improve, Ellis did not die. When Jane Darrow reached her second birthday, it was decided she should have her portrait painted, in the company of her parents. ‘He flatters me,’ muttered Ellis, sourly. He scrutinised the finished article. ‘But he hasn't caught a tenth of your beauty. I've a mind to retain half his fee.’

  ‘I think he's done a very good job.’ Rebecca smiled. ‘Look how well he's painted Jenny. He's captured her expression beautifully. One can almost see her toss her curls. Hear her refuse to go to bed.’

  ‘Oh, I'll not deny he has some talent.’ Ellis shrugged. ‘But he thinks he's a second Hogarth. I call him a maker of daubs.’

  The painter had indeed flattered his paymaster. Once a well–made, athletic man, Ellis had grown gaunt and thin. His face was a haggard mask, over which parchment– dry skin was tightly stretched. His hair was turning grey.

  Rebecca managed the estate and oversaw the manufactory almost single–handed. Not that she minded this. On the contrary, she enjoyed being in control, having carte blanche to do just as she pleased. For Ellis took no interest in anything.

  Wandering into the sitting room one morning, he found Rebecca at the window, turning something ov
er in her hands. Weighing it, tapping it, holding it up to the light and squinting at it, she was absorbed in her study and did not hear him come up behind her.

  ‘What's that?’ he asked, giving the object in question a cursory glance. ‘A piece of papier mâché?’

  ‘What?’ Startled, Rebecca spun round. ‘Oh! Ellis. I didn't hear you come in. No, this isn't paper–board. It's metal.’

  ‘What's its use?’

  ‘It's for fruit.’ She passed her trophy across to him. ‘It's a dessert basket. You know? When one has company to dinner, it sits in the centre of the table, piled high with grapes and apples and nectarines. Everyone admires it, and wants one exactly the same.’

  ‘I see.’ Evidently not impressed, Ellis merely sniffed. ‘Is it brass? Or copper?’

  ‘Tin. Over iron.’ Rebecca retrieved her basket. ‘They plate the iron with tin,’ she explained. ‘Then coat it with layers of varnish. They bake each new layer in a hot stove — so, a finish is gradually built up. The painting is done just before the final varnish is laid.’

  ‘I see. Did Searle's make this?’

  ‘No.’ Rebecca shrugged. ‘There are factories in Birmingham which do turn out this kind of thing. But the workmanship is only fair. I have seen nothing as fine as this basket.’

  ‘Where is it from?’

  ‘South Wales. A little town called Pontypool.’ Rebecca looked up from her hardware. ‘I was thinking I might go there. To look at the manufactory.’

  ‘To spy?’

  ‘No! Of course not.’ Rebecca frowned. But then, candidly, she smiled. ‘Well,’ she admitted, ‘to look about me. To take note of what goes on. Ellis?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The factory in Birmingham needs a new direction. It can't remain a little button–works for ever.’

  ‘It's hardly that now.’ Ellis shook his head. ‘That manufactory is renowned. Famous. Searle's brass and copperwares are known to be the best. Its wrought–iron work is valued far above anything your rivals can produce.’

  ‘That's true. But since Lyddy married Matthew Harris, and he took an active interest in our concerns, my eyes have been opened. If a brand new line were introduced, and it found favour with the public, Searle's could do better than ever. Now the problems of mechanisation seem to have been solved, that is.’ Rebecca grimaced. ‘That steam engine! It's been far more trouble than it was worth.’