by Rosie Harris
David had said it was necessary for him to take up his responsibilities because his father’s health was failing. If his father had become worse, then David may have been forced to stay with him.
Supposing his father died… David would be free to marry her!
Again, so many ‘ifs’ and ‘supposes’ that she felt dizzy.
She went into the library in search of writing paper, determined to send a letter to Helen and discover the truth.
To her consternation Morgan was in there, sitting at the desk perusing some documents. Taken by surprise, she found herself explaining her intent.
‘I’m writing to tell Lady Helen about our forthcoming marriage,’ she told him, colouring furiously.
‘I suppose it is more courteous if she hears it direct from you than by some devious means,’ he grunted. ‘Be quick then, I’m just leaving for Newport and I’ll despatch it from there.’
After she had handed over the letter to Morgan Edwards, Kate wondered if perhaps she’d acted foolishly. If he decided to scan the letter before mailing it, how would she explain that it was a request for news of David and that she had not mentioned one word about their forthcoming wedding?
She watched him covertly for the next few days, but he seemed so engrossed in his own troubles that in the end she dismissed the matter from her mind.
When, almost a week later, Mrs Price brought a sealed package to the dinner table and spoke in a low whisper to Morgan Edwards before handing it over, it never entered her head that it might have been intended for her.
Clocksprings of veins bulged at his temples as he studied it. He let out a roar that rocked the silver on the sideboard, then brought his fist down on the table so hard that it sent the glassware and cutlery jingling. Kate instinctively stretched out and took Mathew’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
‘Take your hands off him you… you whore!’
Mathew’s face went ashen and his breathing became ragged as he stared wide-eyed at his father.
‘It’s all right Mathew, don’t get upset,’ cautioned Kate as she released his hand.
‘Oh yes, everything is all right for you, Miss Stacey,’ Morgan Edwards ground out between clenched teeth. He stared at her balefully, open animosity in his dark eyes.
As he waved the letter in the air she recognized the Sherwood crest and knew it must be from Helen. Cold fear gripped her heart. She tried to speak but the words died on her lips.
‘You must think me a naive fool to have believed your story! Raped by Brynmor!’ His lips curled in a sneer as he flung the letter down on the table.
As she reached to pick it up he grabbed her wrist, twisting it savagely between his hard, bony fingers. ‘Get out! Out of my sight and out of my house,’ he hissed.
She flinched away from his purple-faced fury. Stumbling to her feet she grabbed the letter, then backed away from the table.
‘Harlot! Jezebel! Whore!’
He hurled insults after her as she stumbled up the stairs. Her heart was thundering by the time she reached her bedroom. She scanned the letter but the words blurred before her eyes as she read what Helen had written.
‘There has been no news from David since he left Bramwood Hall. My father’s health is still precarious so I imagine he has found settling in at Llwynowen very onerous. I understand there have been serious troubles at Fforbrecon, so I am sure he has probably not had a moment to attend to his own affairs.
You are ever in my thoughts, dear Kate, just as I am sure you are in David’s. I still think of you fondly… as a sister, and I trust David will soon be in a position to redeem all the promises he made to you.
Beth and Mary are both well but miss you sadly. They send their warmest greetings.
Like them, I look forward to the day when we will all be reunited as one happy family.’
Kate read the missive over and over, gaining courage from its warmth. Knowing where she could reach David changed everything. Nothing else mattered.
Chapter 19
As he sat in the hansom that was taking him from Llwynowen to Fforbrecon colliery, David felt resentful that once again his father was treating him in the same high-handed manner as when he had packed him off to boarding school.
He had known for quite a while that his father was impatient for him to return home and take an interest in business affairs. He had put off such involvement for as long as possible because he enjoyed the cloistered life at Oxford.
Mingling with young men of his own age who shared his love of words appealed to his academic nature. He found blending serious studies with leisure very fulfilling. To wander along the riverbanks or row on the Thames, to take part in debates, or attend literary soirées, all gave him a sense of well-being and contentment.
He lacked his father’s business acumen.
The world of coal and iron, where the furnace was master and men scrabbled for black gold in the bowels of the earth, did not appeal to him. He felt averse to being part of an industry where men were treated more harshly than animals, lived in squalor, became maimed and disabled and regarded death as a happy release, the graveyard as heaven.
Knowing his father would never agree to him leading an academic life he had toyed with the idea of putting up for Parliament, but found it impossible to agree with the policies of either the Whigs or Tories.
The law offered interesting possibilities and over dinner on his first night at home he had tried to persuade his father to support him while he undertook further studies and acquired the necessary legal qualifications.
Tudor ap Owen’s snort of derision left him in no doubt that the idea did not find favour.
‘You have had all the education I intend to pay out for,’ his father told him curtly. ‘You’re twenty-three! It’s high time you gave up philandering and earned a living.’
Over the next few days the argument waged fiercely whenever they were together. An additional irritation was that Penelope Vaughan had learned of his homecoming. Rarely a day passed without her calling at Llywnowen on some pretext or the other. Often it was to invite him to attend some social function where he knew his presence at her side gave rise to knowing smiles and speculation.
David felt trapped. Several times he was sorely tempted to walk out of Llwynowen and return to Bramwood Hall.
As if suspecting this, Tudor ap Owen repeatedly stressed the fact that he was growing old and his health was deteriorating, and constantly reminded David of the inheritance that would eventually be his if he was prepared to play his part.
It was a form of blackmail David found hard to ignore. All his life he had been feather-bedded by his father, given a generous allowance and indulged in every possible way.
It had shaped his character.
He had none of the hard-headed drive that was expected of him, that was the hallmark of a businessman. He preferred studying the classics to poring over a balance sheet, reading poetry rather than a profit and loss account.
‘I have no interest whatsoever in commerce, Father,’ he protested as they sat sipping their port at the end of dinner, a few weeks after he had returned home.
‘I’m counting on you to take control, David.’
‘I know that, Father. That’s why I think some legal training would be beneficial.’
‘It’s too late to think of that now.’
‘Just a year… maybe two. I needn’t complete the entire course.’
‘Quite unnecessary! I can teach you as much as you need to know.’
‘Things are changing, Father. I want to keep abreast of all the new laws they’re bringing in.’
‘And so you shall. Tomorrow you can accompany me to Fforbrecon and find out for yourself how things are run.’
‘I’m not interested in mining. I would far rather teach others…’
‘Then teach the men to work, to accept their rightful place in the scheme of things,’ barked Tudor ap Owen, his eyes glittering fiercely. ‘That’s why I sent for you. There’s trouble brewing. Agitato
rs have infiltrated both the ironworks and the pits fomenting discontent with their talk of rights for the workers.’
‘They are only asking for fair treatment because they are being exploited…’
‘Exploited! Utter rubbish!’ Tudor ap Owen slammed his fist down on the table. ‘They should think themselves lucky that they are in full employment, have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Give in to their demands for shorter hours and higher pay and we’d all end up in the bankruptcy courts. And where would the workers be then, eh?’
Their discourse was interrupted by a manservant bringing in a letter. Frowning, Tudor ap Owen opened it.
‘The messenger is waiting for a reply, sir.’
Tudor ap Owen’s pointed beard quivered, his breathing became laboured as he scanned the missive. He mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief.
‘Are you all right, Father?’
‘My pills… I need my pills.’ He clutched at his chest, groaning with distress.
‘Where are they?’ David glanced up at the manservant questioningly.
‘Here… here,’ gasped his father, fumbling at his waistcoat pocket.
It was several minutes before the pills had the desired effect. David waited anxiously until his father’s breathing returned to normal and his hands stopped shaking.
Tudor ap Owen took a sip of wine, waving his hand irritably as David leaned towards him. ‘You will have to deputize for me tomorrow at a meeting of the Colliery owners,’ he panted.
‘That’s impossible! I know nothing of what is going on,’ exclaimed David, taken aback.
‘Fforbrecon must be represented and I’m not well enough to attend myself,’ Tudor ap Owen said tetchily.
‘You would do better to send your agent.’
‘No! The meeting has been called by the owners, they’d not wish to have lackeys present.’
‘But under the circumstances…’
‘I’ve decided. You will take my place.’
‘It’s senseless for me to be plunged in so deeply right away,’ protested David.
‘It’s high time you accepted your responsibilities.’
‘Very well. But not like this.’
‘This is an emergency. There’s been a cave-in at Fforbrecon, which is why the meeting is being held.’
‘I’m not qualified to sort out something like that!’
‘Just attend the meeting. Listen to what is being said and offer your opinion.’
‘No one would listen to me!’
‘Stay on afterwards. Inspect the mine, talk to the men, make sure our agent has been doing his job properly.’
‘But that may take days… or even weeks!’ protested David.
‘There’s a Company house close by. Stay there. Don’t come back here until everything is running smoothly. Do you understand?’
‘If you say so, Father,’ David acceded reluctantly. ‘Have you any idea just what the trouble is and why this meeting is being called?’
‘Something to do with pay and conditions for the men involved in the accident, according to this.’ He waved the letter agitatedly. ‘I’m sure you can handle it.’
‘You’re wrong, Father. I have no idea what should be done or what sort of settlement is expected.’
‘Then it will be an opportunity to put your learning and skill with words to some real use,’ his father snapped.
* * *
Now, David thought uneasily, as they drew up outside Fforbrecon colliery, he was about to find out whether he did have such capabilities.
‘Mr Owen, sir?’ A youngish man approached, touching his cap.
David nodded.
‘If you’ll come with me, sir, I’ll show you the way.’
They walked in silence. It had been raining, and as David looked around him he thought he had never seen a more desolate and grim scene in his life. The sky was still leaden as though to match the earth beneath. The land on either side of the steep, rough road comprised more stone and slate than soil. The vegetation was sparse and what there was of it was covered with a black film of coal dust. To the left, there were barren slag heaps and beyond them, stark against the skyline, was the winding gear of the pithead.
As they climbed on up the road, David could see the village of Fforbrecon lying to their right, in the valley below them. It appeared to be little more than a few rows of Company houses, blackened by coal dust and built in terraced tiers into the mountainside. One big fall of rock from those craggy sides and they’d tumble like ninepins, David thought with a shudder. After the lush pastures of southern England, the place seemed brooding and hostile.
‘Not a very pretty place, is it, sir?’ the man commented with a crafty, sidelong glance.
David ignored the implication in the man’s words but his feeling of unease increased with every step he took.
There was veiled hostility on the faces of the few men they passed on the road. They stared resentfully, their faces black with coal dust, dark eyes glinting beneath greasy cloth caps.
He was glad when their walk ended.
‘This way, they’re waiting for you, sir,’ his guide told him as they reached a long, low building. He knocked on the door and then stood aside to allow David to enter.
The room was clearly the office of a senior pit official. About a dozen portly, well-dressed men were sitting there on an assortment of chairs. His entrance momentarily silenced the discussion that had been under way.
All eyes were on him as he entered.
An elderly man, with white mutton-chop sideburns, who appeared to be chairing the meeting, rose to his feet and proffered his hand in a perfunctory manner.
‘I’m surprised your father saw fit to send you along on a matter of such importance,’ he frowned. ‘My name’s Pennington…’ He proceeded to introduce David to the other men. One or two rose and shook hands, the others gave a curt nod, indicating their impatience at his lateness and annoyance that the discussion had been interrupted.
Pennington pointed to a vacant chair and as David sat down he explained quickly: ‘There’s been a cave-in. Seven men trapped in one of the galleries. It seems certain that they are dead. We are here to decide whether to clear the gallery or close it down and leave the bodies there.’
‘There is nothing to decide, we already know that seam was becoming unproductive,’ growled a hard-faced man directly opposite.
‘It was due to be shut down. The only sensible course is to seal it off. Getting the bodies out will cost too much both in time and lost production,’ added another.
There was a murmur of agreement from some of the others, but many remained silent.
‘If we agree to that it will cause trouble,’ warned a thick-set, corpulent man sitting next to David. ‘The families won’t like it if the men can’t have Christian burials so we may end up having to retrieve the bodies anyway.’
David remained silent. He didn’t feel qualified to voice an opinion. It horrified him that the meeting was more concerned with the cost involved than the fate of the victims.
‘The best thing we can do now,’ Pennington said, ‘is to make the miners themselves see the sense of this decision.’
He paused, looking hard at each of them.
‘We’ll tell them that it will take at least two weeks to recover the bodies,’ he went on, a cold smile playing on his thin lips. ‘Two weeks without any wages… they’ll soon see which side their bread is buttered.’
‘How can you be sure that none of the seven men is still alive?’ asked David.
No one answered.
Raising his hand, Pennington summoned Roddi Llewellyn, the manager of the pit, who had been waiting patiently at the back of the room, to come forward.
He was a wiry-looking man in his late forties. His bowed shoulders told their own story of the years he had spent underground. His sharp, dark eyes were set deep in his sallow face and his scant black hair was greying at the temples.
He listened impassively as Pennington
told him that the decision was unanimous and that the chamber would be sealed off.
‘The men have been waiting for the past four hours to hear what you intend to do and this will mean trouble,’ he said uneasily.
Pennington raised an eyebrow. ‘It is your job to ensure that the men do not give trouble,’ he snapped. ‘You are employed as manager to carry out orders, not question them. You should know how to handle the men. Am I not right in saying that it’s not all that long, Llewellyn, since you were one of them… working at the coal face?’
Pennington’s words brought an angry stain of colour to the manager’s sallow face and David saw the man’s fists clench. For a moment it looked as though he was going to defy Pennington. David let out a small sigh of relief when Llewellyn strode towards the door saying, ‘I’ll tell the men you are ready to speak to them.’
Once Llewellyn left the room the tension eased. Mining was a high-risk occupation and the owners were all anxious to see that the money they had invested brought in the maximum return. There was no room for sentiment. The men who had died would easily be replaced.
David walked across to the window and stared out. The yard which had been almost deserted when he arrived was now surging with people. Short stocky men with blue-scarred faces, badges of their trade. They were shabbily dressed and in an odd assortment of jackets and trousers, patched and grimy with coal dust. Most of them wore mufflers around their necks and cloth caps on their heads.
There were women among them, their voluminous dark skirts covered by snowy white aprons. Some of them carried babies, almost completely hidden in the shawls wrapped round both baby and mother to form a carrying cradle.
As Llewellyn walked across the yard and spoke to them, David sensed their growing hostility.
‘Is there a rostrum out there for us?’ Pennington asked when Llewellyn returned and told him that the men were ready to listen.
‘Not a proper platform, there’s a cart… it’s the best I can do.’
