‘Anyway, my darling, we poor Welsh farmers are just small fry. Little mice. We nibble only the tiniest holes in the Englishman's great cheese.’
‘Do you?’
‘Certainly. Mr Atkins makes quite sure of that.’ John Rhys sniffed. ‘If he thought I was getting too greedy, it would be the end of me. So, I have to watch my step.’
Lalage shuddered. ‘Why is Mr Atkins so powerful?’ she asked.
‘He's English. He's rich. He's respectable. He farms acres a hundred times more fertile than any owned by poor Welshmen on North Gower.’
‘He's the master?’
‘Yes. He offers the bribes, and takes three quarters of the profit.’ John Rhys laughed. ‘But he couldn't do anything without me! He knows he has to keep me sweet. If I had a mind, I could hang his whole family.
‘Then, we poor Welshmen — we dirty barbarians, who were driven out of South Gower to make room for even dirtier Saxons — we could reclaim our own.’
‘If Mr Atkins were taken, I'm sure you'd be arrested too. He'd make certain of that.’
‘He could prove nothing against me.’ John Rhys shrugged. ‘Come on, Lali. It's getting dark, and I don't want you taking an evening chill. Let's go back.’
As he helped his wife across the dunes, John Rhys was muttering to himself. ‘They tax everything,’ he growled. ‘The soap we wash with, the candles we burn, the salt which savours our food, the light which enters our windows! It's a wonder they don't tax the very air we breathe. We must assert our freedom somehow.’
‘Must you?’ A horrible vision of her husband swinging at a rope's end making her shudder afresh, Lalage took his hand and held it tightly. ‘Be careful,’ she murmured. ‘That's all I ask. Take care.’
‘I've seen my fate.’ His face barely visible in the growing darkness, John Rhys Morgan's eyes glittered like stars. ‘I shan't die on the gallows,’ he said.’ My end will be bloody enough, but they'll not break my neck.’
* * * *
By the time Ellis and Rebecca finally set off on their trip to South Wales, Rebecca's third pregnancy was well advanced. Leaving their daughters in the care of their nurses, husband and wife began their journey on a fine spring day.
Leaning out of the carriage window, Rebecca waved until she could see her children no longer. Then, sinking back against her cushions, she sighed. ‘I don't want to go now,’ she said.
‘Shall we turn back?’
‘No. But the children — ’
‘Will be fine.’ Reassuringly, Ellis smiled. ‘They have excellent nurses, whom they love and trust. Jane actually told us to go.’
‘Yes.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘So she did.’
Now a bossy three–year–old, whose beautiful blue eyes and fair hair were obviously inherited from the Lowells, but whose inflexible will and imperious manner were pure Jeremy Searle, Jane Darrow had watched her parents prepare to leave with great satisfaction. Now, she would be in charge. She and Maria would have chocolate every morning, a ride in the phaeton each afternoon, and sugar candy on demand.
The tin plate factory which Rebecca had come so many miles to see turned out to be part of a huge concern, on a site spread over many acres, just outside the little town of Pontypool. The owner, Mr Evan Lloyd, told Rebecca her fame had preceded her. Searle's manufactory was renowned even in South Wales. Far from regarding her as a spy, he was flattered she should take an interest in his factory's wares.
After entertaining Ellis and Rebecca to tea, he suggested they might like to tour the works. Ellis demurred. Making his excuses, he took himself off for a walk about the town.
A puzzled Mr Lloyd watched him go. Did Mr Darrow really trust his wife to understand everything she would be told? He shook his head. Modern manners baffled him. Modern women made him stare in disbelief. Their forwardness, assurance and impertinence embarrassed him. He was not looking forward to the next few hours at all.
But Rebecca astonished him. Walking round the factory and works, she displayed so much plain good sense and business acumen that Mr Lloyd almost forgot she was a woman. He answered her questions in detail and considered her opinions. He spoke to her man to man.
Returning to his office, Rebecca was glad to sit down. Now Mr Lloyd remembered that here was a young woman at least six months pregnant, and he'd spent the past three hours dragging her round an iron works. Poor creature, she must be exhausted. He offered tea and refreshments. She could have whatever she wanted — he would send out specially.
Rebecca accepted the tea, then asked for pen and paper. She made some calculations. Then she offered Mr Lloyd a business deal which the Welshman could hardly refuse.
The next hour was spent haggling over details. Then, when these had been resolved, they discussed the possibility of sending workmen from the Birmingham factory to the Pontypool works, where they could be instructed by masters.
‘Well, I think that would be an excellent plan.’ Accepting Mr Lloyd's offer to train three of her best craftsmen, Rebecca smiled. She offered her hand. ‘I appreciate your kindness.’
‘Not at all.’ Mr Lloyd shook on it. ‘It's a pleasure to do business with someone like you.’ Then, meeting Rebecca's cornflower–blue eyes, he saw how very pretty she was. He blushed. He hoped Mr Darrow appreciated his good fortune. Where had he found this wonderful woman? Had she been born like this, or made?
* * * *
‘So, you talked him into giving you carte blanche to manufacture his products. In effect, to put him out of business.’ Picking up his knife, Ellis hacked his food into manageable pieces, then began to eat his dinner. ‘You smiled. You tossed your pretty blonde curls. He signed his patrimony away.’
‘It wasn't like that at all.’ Still elated by her recent amazing success, Rebecca laughed. Then she shook her head. ‘Searle's could never manufacture tin–ware on the scale Mr Lloyd does,’ she said. ‘He has his own rolling mills. His own foundries. He has access to an endless supply of labour, and it's much cheaper than any I could get. Most of his processes are protected by patent, too.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Buy his excellent tin plate. Then make the goods under license, using processes which Mr Lloyd has developed and perfected.’
‘Will Searle's still make a profit?’
‘Certainly!’ Her blue eyes radiating confidence, Rebecca twinkled like a star. ‘When my workmen are properly trained, we will prepare our own range of goods. Design our own patterns, as well. We shall create an enormous demand, which Mr Lloyd will help us to meet. Both Searle's and Lloyd's will profit hugely in the end. Ellis, this roast lamb is delicious!’
‘Yes, it is good.’ Chasing an errant piece of meat across his plate, Ellis nodded agreement. But he knew Rebecca. She was so full of herself just now that she would have found a plateful of cold cabbage delicious, and exclaimed delightedly over dry bread and cheese.
* * * *
Rebecca's business concluded, she and Ellis spent a few days at leisure in the beautiful county of Monmouthshire. Driving through green valleys overhung by rocky precipices and forbidding dark woods, strolling on the banks of the Wye, exploring the picturesque ruins of Tintern Abbey, their senses were gratified and their bodies exercised. They were thoroughly enjoying their jaunt.
Walking gave Ellis a better colour. Animated by interest and activity, his face seemed slightly fuller, and his features less haggard, less gaunt. Delighted to see him looking so hearty, Rebecca wondered aloud if a little sea air might not be good for them both. ‘We'll go to Swansea, shall we?’ she suggested. ‘We'll take the coast road. Fresh air, sunshine, light sea breezes. Those are just what you need.’
‘It's a long way to Swansea.’ Studying a map, Ellis frowned. ‘Don't you want to go home? You're missing the children, I'm sure.’
‘Yes. A little.’ Reminded of Jane and baby Maria, Rebecca sighed.
Ellis made up his mind. ‘We'll go to Cardiff,’ he said. ‘Look about us, breathe in as much salt and tar as we can stand — then go
home by way of Chepstow and the Wye Valley.’
‘Very well.’ Rebecca thought that an excellent plan.
To Cardiff they would go.
* * * *
John Rhys Morgan had business in Cardiff. He could not put it off any longer. For it concerned his younger brother, David.
When old Mr Morgan died, his will had been short and to the point. The great stone farmhouse, together with all the Morgans’ land in and around Llangynnydd, all the labourers’ cottages, all the livestock and all the barns, were bequeathed absolutely and unconditionally to the elder son. Except for a tiny legacy from his mother, David Morgan was left unprovided for.
His fate was to serve his brother. To work for wages on his brother's land. To hope, if he were that way inclined, that the heir might die childless.
But, well aware that his brother would hate to work for him and had no desire to be a farmer anyway, John Rhys had taken David for a long walk along the sea cliffs and asked him what he meant to do with his life. Knowing the boy was something of a scholar, he asked if being apprenticed to a physician or surgeon held any appeal.
‘Not at all.’ A small, slim boy of sixteen whose tastes were ascetic and bookish rather than practical, David shuddered. ‘But I could work for a druggist, perhaps.’
‘Or an apothecary?’
‘If you like.’ David shrugged. ‘But I won't be a saw–bones, and that's final.’
‘I'll write to Mr Gregory,’ said John Rhys. This was the obliging English apothecary who, as a last resort in cases of desperate illness, was sometimes summoned from Swansea. ‘We'll see if he knows anyone who needs a junior.’
So David Morgan had eventually gone to Cardiff, to train under a Mr Phillips there. Now John Rhys needed to see him again. David had written to say his training was almost completed. Soon, he hoped to open a shop and set up a practice of his own. He needed a few hundred pounds.
John Rhys disliked towns. He found Swansea dirty, noisy and oppressive. The only times he went there were when he wanted to buy a book or bank some money. He loathed Pembroke, which stank of fish, sewers and the English incomers who had settled there. But he hated Cardiff, a mean little rat–hole infested with more Saxon rats than even Pembroke, more than either.
But he had to go. He couldn't trust David to find a property, or to bargain for it if he did. Where financial matters were concerned, the boy was unworldly to the point of foolishness.
Hearing of her husband's obligations, Lalage was wild to go with him. Mad to visit a town. In a town, there would be shops. Milliners, dressmakers, drapers, shoemakers – she did need some new clothes, and her boots were all falling to pieces. ‘I ought to meet your brother,’ she insisted. ‘Please, John Rhys? Let me come! I love travelling. A jaunt in a stagecoach would do me so much good.’
‘Would it?’ John Rhys hated travelling post. He considered the malodorous public stagecoaches which plied between Swansea and Cardiff to be nothing more than prison cells on wheels. Dirty straw scratched your ankles, filthy upholstery practically crawled with wildlife, and fellow travellers stank, spat and swore.
He grimaced. ‘Oh well,’ he muttered. ‘I suppose I could take you with me. Then I'd have some pleasant company, at least.’
‘Splendid!’ Delighted, Lalage kissed him. ‘I'll tell Betty to pack. We'll make it a holiday, shall we?’
* * * *
Rebecca found Cardiff a dismal little town. The shops were half empty, the people looked poor and dispirited. The castle was a ruin, the docks were dirty and silted up. ‘Someone should take Cardiff in hand,’ she thought. ‘Shake it about. Make it sit up.’
Taking a walk round the centre of the town, such as it was, she and Ellis looked at each other, agreed they were bored, and decided to return home. They would start that very afternoon.
‘I'll go and buy some tobacco,’ said Ellis, ‘then we'll walk back to the hotel. We'll have our dinner while the girl packs. With luck, we should be away by three.’
‘Perfect.’ Rebecca glanced across the empty street. Spotting a dingy little draper's shop, she remembered she ought to buy a present for Jane. ‘You go and get your tobacco,’ she said. ‘I'll step over and see what Mrs Williams has to offer.’
As Ellis walked over to the tobacconist's shop, a woman in the garb of a respectable tradesman's wife came out of a narrow alley. She crossed the street. She glanced at Rebecca, who was looking at the draper's window display.
Momentarily, she paused. From a distance of three or four feet, she stared. But then, shrugging, she hurried on.
Hearing footsteps, Rebecca assumed Ellis was coming across the street. She turned from her idle contemplation of an unremarkable bonnet, and smiled — at a woman who was already walking away.
Rebecca stared after her until she disappeared, up an entry. She knew that walk! That arrogant toss of the head, that languid yet haughty air. That was no tradesman's wife. Rebecca frowned. For a moment, she thought she might faint. Her imagination was playing tricks.
Or was it? In her mind's eye, Rebecca could still see her. Shaking, she leaned against an iron railing. She knew she wasn't mistaken. She had seen Lalage.
Protectively, she folded her arms across her pregnancy. Now something else struck her. Something about the way the woman walked. Then she knew. Lalage had been pregnant, too.
‘Ellis!’ Seeing him at the end of the street, Rebecca ran to him. ‘Did you see her?’ she demanded. ‘Ellis? Did you?’
‘See whom?’ Trying to stuff a package into his coat pocket, and damning the flap which was determined to get in his way, Ellis wasn't even looking at his wife. ‘Well, Becky?’
‘Did you see your sister?’ Her breathing harsh and her blue eyes wide, Rebecca shook him. ‘You must have seen her!’ she cried. ‘She passed this way — you couldn't have missed her. Ellis, did you see Lalage?’
‘No. Of course I didn't.’ Fearing she'd been taken ill, Ellis reached for Rebecca's hand. To his relief, it was cool. ‘You're imaginging things,’ he said. ‘Daydreaming.’
‘I'm not!’ On the verge of tears, Rebecca stared. ‘I saw her!’ she insisted, butting her head against her husband's chest. ‘I'm certain of it!’
‘Oh.’ Ellis shrugged. ‘Well, women in your condition often — ’
‘Have strange fancies. See things which don't exist. I know all about that. But Ellis, this was no dream. I did see your sister. What's more, she was pregnant. She was expecting a baby, too.’
‘What nonsense.’ Now quite certain his wife must be ill, Ellis kept her hand in his. ‘Come along, Becky. Let's go back to the hotel. You must have a rest.’
‘But, Ellis — ’
‘Darling, listen. Alex and Lalage live in London. How could they be here?’
‘They could be taking a holiday.’ Rebecca was determined — she would convince him yet. ‘That's one possibility. Isn't it?’
‘I hardly think my sister would choose to come to Cardiff for her holiday,’ replied Ellis, drily. ‘Bath or Brighton, now — they are possibilities, I'm sure.’
‘But why — ’
‘Lalage likes crowds. Shops. Theatres. The world of fashion. She would not willingly come here.’
‘How do you know?’ Rebecca would not give in. ‘Peoples’ tastes change. Their horizons widen. Their incomes contract. Do you know if they still live in London? If they are there now? Of course you don't.’
Ellis considered. ‘I don't know exactly where they are,’ he admitted. ‘As it happens, I heard from my banker only the other day. Alex has taken no money from their allowance for almost a twelvemonth now.’
‘There you are, then!’ Triumphantly, Rebecca smiled. ‘Now agree — ’
‘I'll agree they may have moved. But I doubt if you — ’
‘You will insist I'm mistaken!’ Rebecca was in despair. Why was he so stubborn? Why couldn't he accept what she said? ‘You will say I'm daydreaming. But I know I'm as wide awake as you are. Ellis, I did see Lalage!’
‘You didn
't!’ Growing angry, Ellis glared. ‘God in heaven,’ he muttered. ‘Am I to be hag–ridden for the rest of my days?’
‘Ellis! That's hardly fair — ’
‘Rebecca, you've said enough.’ Scowling, Ellis walked on. By himself. ‘She can't be here,’ he muttered. ‘Why should she be in Cardiff? She could be anywhere. Anywhere in the world. She might even be dead, for all I know.’
‘Or care?’ Realising Ellis was very upset, Rebecca took his arm. ‘Ellis, my dear? Do you care?’
‘No, I don't.’
‘There's no room in your heart for forgiveness?’
‘None. My heart is closed to her.’ Ellis looked down at the pavement. ‘Were she lying in the gutter here, starving, diseased or even dying, I should not lift one finger to help. In fact, I'd watch her die.’
‘Oh, Ellis! So unforgiving?’
‘She meant to kill you.’ Now, Ellis took Rebecca's hand. He held it firmly in his own. ‘She wanted you to die. Slowly and painfully, too. So now she's dead to me. Do you understand? She doesn't exist.’
* * * *
‘I saw someone I know today,’ said Lalage. Alone in a public stagecoach, she and John Rhys Morgan were on their way home.
‘A friend, Lali?’ Relieved and delighted to be leaving that dirty little town, John Rhys smiled. ‘So who was it, then?’
‘A woman. A slut, I should say. From England.’ Lalage scowled. ‘I saw a fat, English slut. She hates me. I ran away. But she may well have recognised me.’
‘Oh.’ John Rhys put his arm about his wife's shoulders. ‘She can't hurt you now,’ he said, soothingly. ‘No one will hurt my Lali.’
‘No one?’
‘Well, cariad — they'll have to kill me, first.’
Chapter 25
John Rhys Morgan meant what he said. If anyone had even tried to hurt Lalage, he would have cut them to pieces. But now, sitting in an only moderately dirty stagecoach, with his darling wife safe in his arms, he was happy. Comfortably aware that every moment brought him that little bit nearer home, he relaxed. ‘All right, Lali?’ he demanded, giving her a kiss and a hug.
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