The Posthorn Inn

by The Posthorn Inn (retail) (epub)

  ‘No, I will need someone utterly interested in the work, not someone who sleeps long, and daydreams about Lowri or Daisy!’

  ‘If Daisy were to befriend him again, that would brighten him up,’ Olwen laughed. ‘He is badly smitten. Lowri was only an impertinent interloper.’

  ‘How d’you know so much when you rarely go into town!’ Barrass laughed. ‘I’ll have to behave with utmost care if you are to know my every move!’

  * * *

  Having been sent to buy fresh fruit and vegetables for Florrie, Olwen was at the inn near the sorting office in Swansea on the day when Penelope and John Maddern were expected home. She knew from Florrie when the couple were due and waited anxiously for news of the coach’s arrival. The day was wet, with thunder in the air and lightning flashing occasionally against the walls of Island House, around which the market was held.

  Some stall holders packed their goods and hurried home, others shouted that bargains were offered for the brave souls who defied the storm and came to buy.

  Olwen had been one of those making for shelter at the first drops and now she waited for Barrass to finish discussing his future employment with the men from London. When the Ddole carriage drove up and passed through into the stable yard, she gasped with alarm. Penelope and John Maddern were inside. She felt her legs weaken. However she tried not to feel afraid, she knew that if she were present when Barrass and Penelope met after the long absence, she would see immediately whether they were still in love with each other. It was something she was not ready to face. Writing a note to explain her departure, she gave it to a boy to deliver to Barrass, and began the six-mile walk back to Ddole House. Better tired legs than a broken heart.

  If she had waited she would have known that the couple did not stop in town but made their way almost immediately back to the village. Having been away for so long, and suffered such an unpleasant journey over six days, Penelope could not wait to get home and see her father and be once more in her own room.

  It was on the following day that Barrass and Penelope met. When Barrass called at Ddole House with letters, he was told that Penelope wanted to see him. Olwen’s heart threatened to burst from her thin chest as she pretended to concentrate on the cakes she was making and not imagine what they were saying to each other.

  Barrass saw at once that Penelope had changed. She looked the same, yet there was an elegance about her that was more pronounced, a carefully modulated speech that added an air of sophistication. Her dress was more luxurious, fitting – with an ease that spoke of expense – her perfectly formed figure.

  ‘Penelope, it’s been so long I thought you would have the look of a stranger,’ Barrass said, stepping forward to greet her. He took the offered hand, wondering if she had given it to him for fear he might forget himself and kiss her lips. ‘You enjoyed London?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at first,’ she said in her new voice. ‘I found it rather frightening. But once the Thomases began to introduce me to its pleasures, I found it a most agreeable city.’

  ‘Then you will be sorry to return?’

  ‘I wish to see my father, of course, and perhaps I will stay, for a while at least.’

  The formality of her language, and stiffness of her posture unnerved him, but instead of making his excuses and leaving, he tried to persuade her to relax into their once contented friendship.

  ‘I missed you when you were sent away,’ he said. ‘I blamed myself for it. If I could undo those precious days when we were loving friends I think I would, if only to keep you here, near me.’

  ‘We were happy, weren’t we?’ she smiled. ‘I don’t think I regret one moment of it. But now, I hear you and Olwen are to be married.’

  ‘I love her, but not more than I loved you,’ he admitted. ‘That is a terrible thing to admit so near my wedding day, isn’t it?’

  ‘I love John, but only as much as I loved you,’ she said, offering both hands to him. She pulled him close and touched his cheek with her lips. ‘I will be marrying soon. Let us both be happy, shall we?’

  Ignoring the possibility of a rebuff, Barrass took her in his arms and hugged her close to him.

  ‘We will always be loving friends, won’t we, Penelope, even though we will be true to our partners.’

  ‘Always, Barrass, my dear,’ she agreed softly.

  * * *

  Olwen did not stay in the kitchen for Barrass to come from his meeting with Penelope. On the pretext of searching for eggs among the straw of the barn, she sat with hens ducking around her and watched the door for him to depart.

  In the kitchen Barrass looked for her and when Florrie nodded towards the barn he walked slowly across the yard. He hesitated at the open door then stepped inside and sat beside her, his leather bag still across his shoulders.

  ‘It was good to see her again, she is a kind and gentle lady,’ he began. ‘Soon to be married, like us. John Maddern, who has loved her for a long time, has persuaded her to be his wife.’

  ‘Then it’s truly over? You and Penelope?’ Olwen dared to ask.

  ‘It’s never over, a love between two people, but we are both content to be apart. Knowing the other is happy is all we need.’ He put his arms around her and realized she was shivering. ‘Olwen. Are you ill?’

  ‘Not ill, just a little afraid. If you love me, Barrass, will you tell me so often? I’ll need an a-w-f-u-l lot of reassurance.’ She also thought she would need to watch him with the dedication of a hound on the scent of a fox if she were to keep him out of the arms of other women!

  * * *

  The wedding of Olwen and Barrass took place on a breezy, gloriously sunny Sunday, the tenth of March. The procession began at the house on the cliff with Olwen and her proud father, followed by Mary with Dic, and Dan and Enyd who carried their small baby daughter, Marilyn. Once the party had walked down the steep path to the village, they were joined by Ceinwen and Kenneth, Emma and Pitcher, Pansy and Arthur, Daisy and Cadwalader, and Arthur’s dog. Soon, the whole village was in procession.

  Olwen wore a white cotton dress with a skirt that billowed out in the frisky breeze, a veil of lace made by Mistress Powell only months before she had died, and she carried a trailing bouquet of spring flowers made by Mary. Barrass looked so handsome she wanted to cry. He had on a brown worsted suit and shiny leather boots given to him by Pitcher, but the smart outfit did not lessen the impression of a buccaneer spirit within. His long hair had refused to lie flat, and the wind picked it up as wilfully as it filled Olwen’s skirts.

  Both Dic and baby Marilyn had bells on their feet and hands. Children who ran alongside the head of the procession carried hoops that were covered with flowers and streamers of ribbon which they waved as they danced along the rutted road. Boys from the village played on reed pipes and kept the feet dancing gaily as they walked.

  The church quickly filled and those who could not get inside waited at the great oaken door, stretching to glimpse at least a little of the marriage ceremony of one of their favourite daughters.

  Olwen forgot any nervousness she had expected to feel at being the centre of such attention. The joy of those around her was an echo of the happiness within her. Seeing Barrass smiling at her, devotion and utter contentment in his brown eyes, made her wonder if there was anything else in the world she could desire, and decided there was not.

  Penelope was there with John and Olwen could see by the way they looked at each other that from that source at least she had nothing to fear. Violet stood beside Penelope, baby Georgina in her arms, and on her face Olwen was briefly unnerved to see tears. Mary saw, interpreted the look and whispered to her daughter, ‘There are always some who cry at weddings, my dear. I do myself although I am utterly content with your father and have no envy for the bride.’ She pointed to where Dozy Bethan was being consoled by Florrie, and Emma was crying inelegantly into Pitcher’s shoulder.

  The crowd of merrymakers squeezed into The Posthorn Inn and without the need for persuasion, Carter Phillips and Oak-tr
ee Thomas began to play their fiddles, Cadwalader began to strum his harp and Dan began to sing. Daniels arrived and sat beside Florrie, although he did not speak to her. Not far from them sat William Ddole. Penelope and John Maddern were holding hands and smiling contentedly. Markus joined them, still guided by his watchman, although many had now realized that his blindness was not as complete as it once had been. Thieves and thief catchers, servers and customers, rich and poor, all for a few hours as one, Pitcher thought happily, and all here, in my inn.

  Arthur helped his father-in-law to serve drinks and Pansy helped her sister to hand plates of food to the guests. Mistress Gronow, the shy dressmaker from the town had been invited, and she found herself a place in the corner, beside a familiar face no one had thought to invite. Walter Waterman watched as Daisy drew nearer to him, then as she offered a plate of meat and cheese to the dressmaker, he asked, ‘Can I stay and enjoy the company for a while?’

  Daisy looked at him, a wicked smile on her face. ‘No. That is, unless you offer to help me serve the guests.’

  ‘Willingly.’ He stood up and pushing his way through the revellers, began to assist in the formidable task of feeding most of the village out of one small kitchen. That they managed extremely well told of the efficiency of Emma and Pitcher, and augured well for the success of The Posthorn Inn.

  Olwen and Barrass left the party without being observed and walked in their finery to their new home. The moon lit their path, the house, white and welcoming seemed to be waiting for them, its door open, a fire burning and a kettle hanging over it spouting a thin thread of steam. The animals were all bedded down, new pens and sheds keeping them safe from harm. The silence was absolute and Olwen had dropped her chatter to a whisper as if afraid of spoiling the magic of the moment.

  Barrass lifted her and carried her inside, kicking the door closed behind him. Their bed had been placed before the fire and he placed her gently upon it.

  * * *

  Behind them at the inn, people began to gather, and a procession, far less orderly that the previous one, began to snake across the field. Giggling broke out and was quickly subdued. Whispered instructions passed down the straggling line of well-wishers. The assorted items they carried clanged occasionally, causing more laughter hushed in cupped hands.

  When they reached the newly built house, they began to bang with sticks on the tins and boxes they had brought. They rattled chains, they beat on sauce-pans. Some had brought handbells, borrowed from the church, and the silent night was silent no more, being filled with a cacophony of harsh sounds and raucous laughter.

  Within the house Barrass held Olwen close and they waited for the din to subside.

  ‘The devils have been truly driven away,’ he whispered. ‘Now there’s nothing to worry us until morning, my dear wife.’

  Just then, one of the new cockerels crowed and they both laughed. Morning had broken and it was time to rise and begin their first day.

  * * *

  Emma stood in the darkness of the greatly enlarged building towards dawn when the last guest had finally been persuaded to leave, looking down the stairwell to the shadowy rooms below. Snores emanated from the bar-room and she sighed; perhaps the last guest had not gone after all. She shrugged, tomorrow was almost here, no point in making a fuss.

  Pitcher woke and finding her missing from his side, came to join her.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Emma?’ he asked, putting an arm around her shoulders and hugging her close.

  ‘Pity for the lack of fine husbands for our beautiful daughters Pitcher,’ she said looking down to where sunlight was creeping slowly across the floor. ‘I thought we’d be wealthy enough to attract some gentlemen by the time they were old enough, but it wasn’t to be.’

  ‘Arthur is kind, and he loves Pansy. Things could be a lot worse,’ Pitcher said.

  ‘Oh, I’m not complaining, my dear. In fact, I confess that life with a house filled with guests wanting my food and a stable full of horses being cared for, well, it’s a far happier life than I had ever imagined.’

  Pitcher took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Emma was a wife in a million. This fine inn was his own creation. He could smell the sea close to his door. Already Arthur and Cadwalader were beginning to stir, enthusiastic to begin the day’s work. He was content.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1991 by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Grace Thompson, 1991

  The moral right of Grace Thompson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781911591818

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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