by Rosie Harris
‘Mathew? Are you Mathew Edwards?’ Kate asked.
The boy nodded, his brown eyes wide with surprise that a complete stranger should know his name.
‘Come along in. The night air’s not good for the boy,’ the man ordered impatiently. ‘He’s not been well. An attack of asthma, or so the doctor said.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Kate looked down at her luggage, then picking up her canvas bag she stepped over the tin trunk, and into the hallway.
‘Follow the boy, I’ll bring the rest of your belongings,’ the man told her, placing the candle down on an oak chest that stood against one wall in the hallway.
The room Mathew took her into was spacious, with a lofty ceiling and two large windows. Kate glanced around, feeling uneasy. Although everything in the room was of the very best, the room had an air of neglect.
The Axminster carpet, patterned in shades of red and gold, was of the richest quality. The red, flocked wall-coverings echoed the same colour theme. Two elaborate chandeliers, with magnificently wrought candleholders, were supplemented by oil lamps strategically placed around the room. The gold velvet drapes had been carefully chosen to complement the upholstery but they were drawn in a lopsided manner, the tie-backs hanging untidily.
Kate’s fingers itched to straighten them, plump up the cushions and straighten the antimacassars.
The ornaments on the mantelshelf, as well as on the side tables and rosewood chiffonier, were badly arranged. Coal had spilled out of the grate on to the hearth and lay smouldering beneath the fire irons.
She turned her attention to Mathew and was shocked by the frayed cuffs of his velveteen jacket and the missing buttons. His hair was tousled and he had a pale, washed-out look. His eyes were red-rimmed as if from crying.
‘You are Morgan Edwards?’ she questioned the man who had followed them into the room and stood looking at her, one of his hands resting heavily on the boy’s shoulder.
‘That’s right.’ His voice was clipped.
‘Then I have the correct house,’ she said, attempting a smile.
His lean face remained set.
‘I have been working as nanny to Lady Helen Sherwood’s two girls and…’
‘Who sent you?’
Some sixth sense told her that all was not well at Machen Mawr. It was not just that the opulence of the furnishings and decor was at odds with their unkempt state, but Morgan Edwards seemed to be under some sort of strain.
‘Lady Helen. She thought you might like to engage me in a similar situation for your son Mathew.’
‘There must be some mistake…’
‘I have an excellent reference from Sir George Sherwood,’ she interrupted, taking the document from her reticule and holding it out.
She waited uneasily, knowing she had put her case badly. The man’s inscrutable stare had unnerved her, making her feel at a disadvantage.
She studied him covertly as he read her reference. He, too, looked in need of care. His jacket was stained and his cuffs frayed. And why had he been the one to open the door, she wondered. Surely a house of this size would merit servants to do that sort of thing.
His next words stunned her back to the present.
‘My wife died several months ago. I should have informed Lady Sherwood, but Mathew has been ill and such matters have not received my attention.’
‘I’m so sorry… I don’t know what to say… Lady Helen had no idea, of course, or…’
‘I have no need of a governess. Mathew attends school in Pontypool.’
‘I’m not a governess,’ Kate told him, quickly. ‘A nanny isn’t a nurse, either,’ she hurried on before he could speak. ‘A nanny is someone who deputizes for the child’s mother.’
‘It’s a pity Lady Sherwood didn’t write and ask me first,’ he frowned. ‘Or, perhaps she did…’ He ran a hand through his thick dark hair so that it stood up spiky around his brow. ‘So many things have gone awry since Myfanwy died.’
‘I’m sorry to have troubled you…’ her voice trailed off as she saw that Mathew was leaning against his father as if for support, his breath coming in short, laboured gasps.
‘Mathew doesn’t seem well… shouldn’t he be in bed?’ she asked, her voice full of concern.
‘He was just on his way upstairs when we heard you at the door and it frightened him. He gets asthma attacks when he’s worried or tense,’ Morgan Edwards stated uneasily.
‘Would you like me to take him up to bed?’ she suggested, holding out her hand to the child.
Mathew hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes studying her face solemnly. She held her breath, aware that this could be a turning point. If Mathew accepted her offer she had a feeling that she might, after all, be asked to stay.
The boy looked questioningly at his father but Morgan Edwards’ face gave no clue of what he was thinking.
Kate waited anxiously, as Mathew’s mute gaze travelled from one to the other of them. His raucous breathing was the only sound in the room. Slow and laboured, each breath was a conscious effort as his narrow chest lifted and fell.
She wondered what thoughts lay hidden behind the troubled brown eyes and marvelled that this puny, white-faced boy had the power to decide her fate.
Kate was quite sure that if Mathew spurned her suggestion then no amount of persuasion on her part would convince Morgan Edwards that she was needed at Machen Mawr.
She wanted to stay. Not simply because she had nowhere else to go, but because she felt concerned about the boy’s welfare. Remembering her own sadness and sense of loss after her grandmother had died, her heart went out to him.
The dark shadows beneath Mathew’s eyes told of sleepless nights, of fear and loneliness, and she longed to be able to comfort him.
She couldn’t envisage this grim-faced man holding the boy in his arms, wiping away his tears, calming his fears, or helping to ease his sense of loss with consoling words.
‘All right.’ Shyly, Mathew slipped his hand in Kate’s.
‘Come on then, show me where to go.’
‘Will you tell me a story?’
‘Of course!’
‘And stay in my room until I go to sleep?’
‘Yes, if you want me to.’
For the first time since she had arrived at the house she saw him smile. His breathing eased as they left the room together.
‘Take your bag upstairs with you. I’ll bring up the trunk and show you which will be your room,’ Morgan Edwards ordered abruptly. ‘We’ll settle the details of your employment after you’ve put Mathew to bed.’
Chapter 9
Long after Kate had gone to bed, Morgan Edwards remained in the drawing room staring into the dying embers of the fire, brooding over the strangeness of Fate, and wondering if her chance arrival might be the start of better things.
A thin, wiry man, his broad muscular shoulders made him appear shorter than he really was. He had a long face, with deep set dark eyes hooded by heavy dark brows. His wide mouth above the square-cut beard was thin-lipped, giving his face a perpetually grim look.
Perhaps a substitute mother was exactly what Mathew needed, he mused. He was such a namby-pamby weakling with his pale, narrow face, and spindly legs and arms, that at times he felt ashamed to think he had sired him. More like a girl than a boy, with his meek manners and whispering voice.
Mathew had been sickly from the day he was born, Morgan thought gloomily. He’d hoped that when the boy started school he would improve but he was still afraid of the dark, and preferred to sit reading rather than be out of doors.
Myfanwy’s long illness hadn’t helped. Mathew had haunted her like a shadow, sitting beside her, holding her hand for hours at a time, as if willing her not to leave him.
Morgan had expected hysterics when he’d told Mathew that she had died but the boy had said nothing, barely shed a tear. Two days later, he’d had his first asthma attack. The bouts had recurred with increasing intensity at intervals ever since. The slightest shock or upset seemed to
trigger off an attack, which sometimes lasted for hours.
He’d thought Mathew was all set for one tonight but Kate Stacey seemed to have nipped it in the bud. It was as if her presence, and the tone of her voice, had quelled his fears and restored his self-confidence.
Morgan got up and poured himself a whisky.
He felt vaguely uneasy that a complete stranger could walk into his house and have more effect on his son than he had. It went against the grain. He liked to be the one in control of any situation he was involved in.
It was just another sign that he was losing his touch, he thought bitterly. Since Myfanwy had died his entire life had fallen to pieces. Their social life had declined slowly over the years but now it was non-existent.
And that wasn’t all. They no longer began each day with family prayers. Nor did Mathew attend Dr Howell’s school regularly, he reflected irritably. More often than not he’d stay home claiming he wasn’t feeling well, but Morgan knew that once he had driven away, Mathew would creep down to the kitchen to be with Mrs Price.
For all that, Mathew seemed to manage to keep up with his learning. He could read and cipher with the best of them. Yet regular schooling was necessary. The boy was much too introverted. He needed companionship and organized exercise to put some colour into his cheeks.
At one time Morgan had felt so guilty about the situation that he’d tried spending more time with Mathew, even taking him walking. The result had been disastrous! He’d never forget the time they had been halfway up Sugar Loaf Mountain and Mathew had started one of his asthma attacks.
They’d been marooned on the mountainside with no one to help. Morgan shuddered, remembering how Mathew had struggled for breath, his lips blue, each gulp of air rasping and laboured.
He’d been petrified Mathew was going to die and had carried the boy back down the mountain and into Abergavenny. By the time they reached there he, too, was puffing and wheezing as though he was the one with asthma.
Mathew had taken a long time to recover from his ordeal and afterwards seemed even more fragile. Watching him stare listlessly out of a window, or toying with his food, Morgan sometimes wondered if it would have been better if the child had not pulled through since he got so little enjoyment from life.
Mathew didn’t even have any feel for horses!
Brynmor had ridden since he was three and was as much at home on a horse as he was on his own two feet. Not so Mathew. The sight of a horse, or one whiff of the stables, and he was coughing and wheezing like an old man of ninety.
It was something to do with animal hair, according to the specialist he’d taken him to in Newport. A complete load of rubbish as far as Morgan was concerned. More likely the boy was frightened of the beasts, he thought cynically.
He’d never been afraid of anything in his life. Even as a small child he would face the fiercest ram with impunity.
The boy was sickly, there was no doubt about that. Perhaps the arrival of this woman, who called herself a nanny, would have some good effect. She seemed too young to have had much experience but he was prepared to give her a trial since Helen Sherwood had sent her along.
Helen’s name had stirred memories long forgotten. His thoughts went back to when he was in his twenties, and Helen and Myfanwy younger even than that.
He remembered Helen, round-faced and fair with gentle hazel eyes. Myfanwy had been her opposite in colouring. Her hair had been dark and straight, framing her oval face. She’d had such a proud look, haughty almost. He sighed; so very different to how she looked just before she died.
It had been a happy release; her illness had taken its toll of them both.
Long before the end came he’d reached a stage where any feelings he had for her had withered under the strain. But was it an illness? He’d asked himself that question a hundred times or more. The doctor had never been able to attribute any specific cause for her gradual decline. It was as if she wasted away because she’d lost the will to live. And that seemed unbelievable when she had so much to enjoy. Wealth, a lavish home, servants to wait on her and a carriage to ride out in as well as her own horse.
Brynmor had been almost ten when Myfanwy had found herself pregnant again. They’d given up all hope of another child by then and right from the moment she knew she’d seemed to resent what was happening.
She’d carried well but the birth had been long and arduous. For weeks afterwards she’d remained in bed, barely moving, refusing to see any visitors and showing hardly any interest in the baby.
She made no attempt to feed him, and although they’d hired a wet nurse, Mathew still didn’t thrive as he should.
With a semi-invalid wife and a puny, mewling baby in the house he had spent more and more time at work and stayed away from home as much as he could. Most other men would have done the same, Morgan reasoned silently.
Looking back, he wondered if, had he behaved differently, been more conciliatory, it would have altered the way things had turned out. Given the right encouragement, Myfanwy might have regained her strength and interest in life. And Mathew might have become a sturdy, healthy child like his elder brother.
A smile twisted Morgan’s thin lips as he thought of Brynmor. Now there was a son to be proud of!
Nineteen, and a head for business matters like a man of thirty. He was a chip off the old block and no mistake. Brynmor had inherited his own aptitude for hard work coupled with his grandfather’s shrewdness.
He had to admit that at times Brynmor could be ruthless.
Determined, that was what the boy was. Look at the way he had devoted himself to finding out about the powders and lacquers used for japanning. Nothing but the best in materials and technique would do for the trays and tableware made at his factory. Night after night, long after the men had left, Brynmor worked on, determined to perfect a method that would make his Japanware the very best.
It was a pity Brynmor had involved himself with the running of ‘Tommy Shops’, Morgan thought irritably. There was something evil about them in his opinion. Unlike most of the other ironmasters and owners in Ebbw Vale he didn’t approve of them. And he had told Brynmor so on more than one occasion.
‘Setting up shops and letting your employees buy on credit sounds benevolent enough until you look at the prices you are going to charge,’ he told Brynmor.
‘They expect to pay a bit more if they’re getting it on tick!’
‘What you’re asking is daylight robbery.’
‘It’s the usual percentage.’
‘It works out double what they would pay in the normal way.’
‘And interest on top of that!’
Yet the workers fell for it. Being able to get credit was the attraction. Most of them were bad managers of money and their wives were even worse.
Brynmor made sure there were no bad debts outstanding by deducting what was owed straight from each man’s wages before he handed over their pay.
‘Poor dabs!’ argued Morgan. ‘It means some of them only take home a few shillings at the end of the week! The rest’s already been spent in the Tommy Shop.’
‘Where would they be without their bit of tick, tell me that?’ argued Brynmor.
‘It’s not right to encourage them to spend their wages before they get them.’
‘The men count on being able to get their baccy and a nip of whisky or rum from one of my shops even when they haven’t a penny piece in their pockets.’
‘Think of their families.’
‘I do. Where would their wives be if they couldn’t get meat, cheese, bread and flour on tick? They’d starve, that’s what they’d do, and all their snivelling children along with them.’
‘It’s a form of slavery,’ Morgan protested.
‘Nonsense. I’m being philanthropic,’ laughed Brynmor.
‘They’re working to pay what they owe you before they even start to earn the next week’s money. They’re up to their eyeballs in debt all the time.’
‘And that’s what keeps them lo
yal and makes such good workers out of them,’ scoffed Brynmor.
Morgan didn’t like it.
Taller than him by a head, and with shoulders just as broad, Brynmor had stood there young and confident, his broad face shining with satisfaction.
He might be clever but he could be cruel and vicious Morgan reflected, remembering the way Brynmor’s mouth had twisted in a sardonic grin. Took after his grandfather on his mother’s side, all right.
Old Rhys Carew had been a hard man. One of the greatest ironmasters of his day, he’d enslaved his workers and exploited them. At Brynmawr, he’d built an entire village, close enough to his foundries that the men had no excuse for not hearing the bell that clanged ten minutes before the start of their shifts.
Many times as a young boy, Morgan himself had run from his home at the far end of one of the terraces, eating a bread-and-dripping butty as he went, so as not to be late.
He thought back to the day he had been made foreman.
‘Been watching you, boyo, and I can see that you have the feel for the iron,’ old Carew had told him. ‘You may be a bit on the young side but you’ve got the makings of a leader.’
He had towered over him, a formidable figure in a black broadcloth jacket and trousers and striped alpaca waistcoat. A thick silver watch chain strained across his enormous paunch. His six foot of rolling fat swayed powerfully.
And that had been his first step on the ladder. There had been no turning back after that even if he had wanted to do so. Rhys Carew had no sons of his own and he’d more or less adopted Morgan. He had forced success on him, even to the point of dictating that he should marry Myfanwy.
Morgan could hardly remember his life before then in the tiny terraced house where he’d slept in the same bed as his three step-brothers. After making him foreman, Rhys Carew arranged for him to move into respectable lodgings just outside Beaufort at the head of the valleys. Six months later he had been put in charge of the ironworks there.
