by Iris Gower
Llinos followed Dafydd down the graceful staircase, wondering what had happened to the young man with whom she had once been besotted. All she saw now was a man who lived life to excess in every way.
In the hall, Dafydd rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘Don’t judge me too harshly, Llinos.’ He spoke gently, the anger gone from his face. ‘Jayne has humiliated me, rebuffed me. What sort of wife will not sleep in her husband’s bed?’
‘The sort of wife who has grown tired of being bullied and ridiculed. You can’t claim you’ve been a good husband to Jayne, not even in the early days of your marriage.’
‘Oh, but you’re wrong there. I fell in love with Jayne – some time after I married her, I’ll grant you – but love her I did.’
‘Well, none of this is my concern,’ Llinos said. ‘I came here because Eynon asked me to and because I feel sorry for Jayne. What sort of life is she leading, locked up like an animal? Can’t you let her go, Dafydd?’
‘I might release her some time but not just yet. Jayne needs punishing for what she’s done to me.’
Llinos moved towards the door, ‘I’d better go, there’s nothing more I can do here.’
‘Wait.’ Dafydd caught her hand and held it tightly. ‘Don’t look at me with such disgust, Llinos. What would any man do who learned his wife had been unfaithful?’
‘You’re asking the wrong person, Dafydd, or have you forgotten that I betrayed my husband with you? Joe forgave me, but he was a better man than you could ever be.’
Dafydd drew her to him. ‘You loved me once, Llinos, and you were eager for my embrace. I remember how you cried out in joy when we made love.’ He touched her cheek. ‘And you are still beautiful, Llinos. You’re the sort of woman who never loses her looks. There’s a magnetism about you that no man could resist. I still care about you, Llinos. You’re the mother of my son, after all.’
Llinos sighed. ‘I’ll never play the unfaithful wife again, Dafydd,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel anything for you now, except perhaps anger that you could treat Jayne the way you do.’
With an abrupt movement Dafydd’s grip tightened and then his mouth was on hers. Llinos remained still in his arms. She neither responded nor rebuffed him and at last Dafydd released her.
‘Do you really feel nothing for me now?’ He was like a small boy who had lost his favourite toy.
‘I feel nothing for you, Dafydd. You will always be Sion’s father and I can never forget that, but as for caring for you or being bedazzled by you, that died long ago.’
Llinos hurried outside, welcoming the feel of the cool air on her cheeks. She climbed into her carriage and leaned back in the leather seat. How could one man cause so much havoc in the lives of the women with whom he became involved? Instead of going straight home, she told the driver to take her to Pottery Row: she would talk to Watt and find out more about Guy Fairchild’s whereabouts.
Watt was in the painting shed demonstrating a new pattern to one of the workers. When he saw Llinos he put down his brush and wiped his hands on a cloth then came towards her. ‘Llinos, why didn’t you warn me you were coming? I would have had some tea or coffee waiting for you.’
‘I just called in on a whim but some tea would be welcome.’ She linked arms with him as they left the sheds and made their way across the yard towards the house.
It was strange to go in through the back door and smell the familiar scents of the house, knowing that she no longer lived there. Watt and his family were in residence now and they had made it their own. The designs Watt had created for the china were framed and hung on the walls and new curtains fluttered at the windows. The house held so many memories, most of them shared by Watt.
‘Remember when my father came home from the war in France, Watt?’ she asked quietly. ‘He was so badly injured it was a wonder he survived.’
‘I remember,’ Watt replied. ‘Joe was with him, looking after the captain so well you’d have thought he was his own father.’
‘All a long time ago now, Watt, water under the bridge.’ But she looked round at the familiar rooms and knew that part of her would always belong to the very fabric of the house.
When they were both seated in the drawing room Llinos looked up at Watt. ‘How’s Rosie?’
‘Very well, thank you. She’s gone shopping in town today,’ he replied. ‘But why are you really here, Llinos? Not thinking of taking up work at the pottery again, are you?’
Was there a hint of anxiety in Watt’s voice? Llinos reassured him quickly: ‘No, of course not. Eynon would be furious if I even thought of such a move. No, I’ve come to ask you about Guy Fairchild. Jayne asked me to find out what I could about him.’
‘I didn’t see much of him, but I was surprised when I discovered he was associated with a man like John Pendennis.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Llinos frowned. ‘When John worked for me he was never trustworthy – he even thought he could take the pottery away from me once, do you remember?’
Watt nodded. ‘How could I forget?’ He rubbed his beard, which was streaked now with white. ‘It did occur to me to warn Fairchild but it didn’t seem to be any of my business.’
‘On the other hand, it might be that John has changed. He’s an older and perhaps wiser man now.’
‘I don’t think so, Llinos,’ Watt said. ‘According to gossip, John had his revenge on a local man who offended him. It seems he ruined the man, took his business from him. No, I don’t think he’s changed.’
‘Well, anyway, this is not about John. I want to know if there is a way of contacting Guy Fairchild.’
‘I’ll be going to Cornwall again next week so I could take a letter to him.’
‘Fetch me some paper and a pen, Watt. I’ll write to him at once and tell him what a state poor Jayne is in.’
‘Llinos, you’re a generous woman. The way Jayne has treated you in the past you’d have every right to hate her and yet you’re helping her.’
‘I’m married to her father, which makes me her stepmother. In any case, I can’t bear to see her so unhappy. She’s a prisoner in a horrible house that Dafydd bought with the sole intention of keeping her there.’
Watt smiled. ‘You always were a champion of the underdog, Llinos, and I love you for it.’
While Watt went away to find pen and ink and some writing paper Llinos leaned back in her chair and stared up at the familiar ceiling of the drawing room. She had spent most of her life here, as a young girl alone struggling to survive, as a married woman, and as a widow. When Watt returned, Llinos scribbled a note and sealed it. She gave it to Watt. ‘Keep it safe and promise me you’ll hand it to Guy Fairchild in person.’
‘I’ll do that as soon as I arrive in Cornwall. Now that our business is concluded, perhaps you’d like to talk to Rosie. She’s just come in and she’s waiting in the sitting room, eager to see you.’
‘I’d love to,’ she said, and after a last glance around the room, she followed Watt out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RHIANNON FOLLOWED MRS Paisley around the hotel, admiring it in its newly refurbished glory, excitement bringing colour to her cheeks. The bookings were up on last month and satisfied customers were taking rooms every time their business brought them to Swansea.
‘Well, what do you think of our little enterprise now?’ she said, as she stepped into Mrs Paisley’s small office on the ground floor.
Mrs Paisley didn’t answer until she was seated at her desk. ‘I’ll tell you once I get my breath back.’ She was puffing heavily and Rhiannon saw that the old lady had overtaxed herself. ‘We’ve been up and down those stairs so many times I’m quite dizzy,’ Mrs Paisley panted. ‘Anyway, why don’t you tell me what you think of it?’ She redid her small greying bun and replaced her hat on her head, although she had no intention of venturing outdoors.
‘I just knew in my heart that the Paradise Park was going to do well,’ Rhiannon declared.
Mrs Paisley gave a little snort. ‘I think you’re u
nderstating the case, Rhiannon. This hotel of ours is flourishing, not just doing well. But it’s early days, mind,’ she added, a warning note in her voice. ‘We still have to be cautious with the money.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ Rhiannon replied. ‘By the way, have you been to the bank yet?’
‘Plenty of time for that. I’ve got the money hidden well, and no one will outsmart old Mrs Paisley in a hurry.’
Rhiannon bit her lip. The bank account was in Mrs Paisley’s name, and because of that the old lady had complete control of the finances. Her own name should be added to the account in case Mrs Paisley was too sick to go into town. Rhiannon was just about to put her thoughts into words when Mrs Paisley spoke again. It was as though she’d read Rhiannon’s mind. ‘We’ll have to go down into town together and put your name on the account. It’s not easy for me to get about with this arthritis bothering me.’
‘That’s a splendid idea.’ Rhiannon moved to the door. ‘Shall we go later today?’
Mrs Paisley mulled over the question, as though it was of great import. Then she nodded. ‘Why not? I could do with a breath of fresh air in my poor old lungs.’
Rhiannon smiled to herself. Mrs Paisley took her time to make decisions and that pleased her: she was a steadying influence and would make sure that Rhiannon didn’t get carried away with excitement and make rash decisions. Just then the tinkling of the doorbell sounded. ‘I think our latest guest has arrived. I’ll go and see to him.’
Rhiannon hurried into the hall, but Sal, dressed smartly in her maid’s uniform, had already opened the front door and a tall gentleman dressed in black stepped inside. Sal moved back, making herself almost invisible, and Rhiannon smiled: Sal was learning fast.
‘You are Mr Wellington?’ She moved forward to greet the guest.
The gentleman removed his gloves before taking her extended hand in a firm grip. ‘I am indeed, madam. I presume you are the proprietor of this hotel.’
‘You presume correctly,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Would you like to inspect the room before you take it?’
Mr Wellington shook his head. ‘No, dear lady, the recommendation I received from a colleague regarding your establishment is enough for me. Perhaps you have a boy to bring my boxes to my room?’
‘I’ll see to it, Mr Wellington. Sal, will you show the gentleman to suite three?’ She watched as Sal, head bent demurely, led the way up the stairs. Sal had changed so much: these days, she was every inch a modest young woman following a respectable trade as a hotel servant.
Rhiannon looked at the boxes, of which there were at least six. It seemed her new guest intended his stay to be a lengthy one. She would have to employ a boy to do the heavy work. In the meantime it would be up to herself and the other servants to carry up the boxes.
It was a good thing she had taken on Vi and Hetty: after a spell of unemployment both girls had been eager to work. Still, a strong young man was needed, and Rhiannon made a mental note to discuss the matter with Mrs Paisley.
She lifted one of the boxes and balanced another on top of it, climbed the stairs with difficulty, hampered by her long skirts, and deposited them on the landing outside suite three. Another trip should deal with the smaller stuff, but she would need help with the two larger boxes. That would have to wait, however: now she had to discuss lunch with Mrs Jones.
In the kitchen the cook was kneading dough for the loaves she would bake for supper that evening.
‘Duw, Rhiannon, don’t creep about like that – you nearly gave me a heart-attack!’ Mrs Jones rubbed the flour from her hands. ‘Still, I’ll just put the dough to prove and then I’ll be with you.’
Mrs Jones might have been getting on in years but she was still as agile as a woman half her age. She put the dough on a tray and covered it with a cloth then stood it in the hearth. ‘Vi!’ she called. ‘Get some water for the kettle, there’s a good girl, and be quick about it.’ She sank into a chair, pushed back a strand of frizzy hair and kicked off her slippers. ‘I expect you want to know what I’ve got for the main meal, do you, girl?’
‘I do, but a cup of tea and a sit-down sounds good. My legs are aching from climbing up and down the stairs. We’ve got another guest and it looks as if he’s planning to stay for some time, judging by the amount of luggage he’s brought with him.’
‘That’s what we like to hear.’ Mrs Jones rested her elbows on the table and looked at Rhiannon. ‘I am grateful, mind, cariad.’
‘What for?’ Rhiannon said. ‘It’s me who should be grateful to you. Who else would work for nothing as you did until the money started coming in?’
Mrs Jones wiped her eyes with her apron. ‘Aye, but I had bed and board and I can’t forget that if it wasn’t for you I’d be out on the streets.’
Violet came in with the kettle and set it on the side of the fire, then arranged the coals with the poker.
‘Get on with it, Vi, or we won’t be having this tea until supper-time.’ Mrs Jones sighed. ‘Got to keep on to them all the time, you have, or these girls won’t do anything right.’
‘I’m doing my best, Cook,’ Violet said. ‘I can’t make the kettle boil any faster, can I?’
‘No, but you can make it boil slower by fiddling around with the fire like that. The weight of the kettle will settle the coals, never mind you playing around with them.’
‘Only trying to help, I was. There’s no gratitude shown round here whatever a body does.’
‘Gratitude!’ Mrs Jones flushed. ‘You gets your pay, girl, and you ’as a warm bed at night and good food. It’s you who should be showing gratitude, no one else.’
Rhiannon switched her mind away from the wrangling between the cook and the maid: it was an everyday event – senior servants were privileged to rebuke the younger ones, and it was expected in the hierarchy of the kitchen. She settled back in her chair with a feeling of well-being. The business of the Paradise Park was growing and with that she was content.
Bull sank down on the grassy bank beside the railway track and shaded his eyes from the sun with his hand. The track gleamed like silver against the earth and in the distance he could see the smoke from the train coming into Swansea. He glanced at his watch: the train was on time and pride filled him. He watched as the engine drew nearer shooting sparks into the grass. Its sheer strength and majesty enthralled Bull. He felt the breeze as the carriages rolled past him and smiled. The railway was his life – more so since he’d lost Katie and the baby.
Suddenly the light seemed to vanish from the sky and instead of excitement he felt sorrow: he was alone in the world now, with no one to share his life. He’d enjoyed going home after work and telling Katie all about his day. She used to listen with rapt attention and even though she knew little about the running of a line she always showed an interest in what he had to tell her.
‘Good day to you, Bull. Mind if I sit a bit with you?’
‘No need to ask, Seth, this is a free country.’ Bull felt a dart of pity as he watched Seth make his way cautiously along the bank, using the crutch he had made for himself.
‘You look lonely, Bull. To be sure, I’m right sad you lost your little wife and babba and I wish I could have saved her for you.’
Bull sighed. Seth voiced the same words every time they met. Didn’t he realize that the very mention of the accident sent Bull into a spiral of despair?
‘See the two thirty roll past, then, Bull?’ Seth changed the subject, as though sensing Bull’s thoughts. ‘Sure ’tis a wonderful thing, a railway engine.’
The two men fell silent. After a time Seth took out a flask and handed it to Bull, who took it and drank a mouthful of the gin then handed it back. He glanced at Seth: he was still a young man, but his injuries had left their mark in the lines of pain on his face. Yet the man was still drawn to the railway, still enchanted by the sight of the smoking beast rolling through the countryside like a dragon. It was in his blood just as it was in Bull’s, and somehow that made a bond between them.
; ‘I never thanked you proper, like,’ Seth said. ‘You saved my life, you did, and I’ll never forget that.’
‘You’ve thanked me already, Seth, and there’s no need to thank me again. Any man would have done the same.’
Seth shook his head. ‘No, they wouldn’t. It took courage to pull me back.’ He took another mouthful of gin. ‘I hated you at first, mind, Bull, I wished you’d left me to die. Thought my life was over, I did, didn’t believe any woman would want me like I am, but I was wrong.’
‘Oh, you’ve found yourself a sweetheart, then, have you, Seth?’
‘Aye, I have that.’ He smiled, and Bull realized the man was quite handsome in a rough sort of way. ‘Her name’s Sal and she’s a maid at the Paradise Park.’ He glanced at Bull from the corner of his eye. ‘Don’t go getting any wrong notions. Bull. The Paradise Park is all respectable now, a place for gentlefolk to stay, businessmen from out of town.’
‘I know,’ Bull said, ‘Rhiannon’s running the place.’
‘She’s such a lady now, no one would think she had ever been . . .’ he hesitated ‘. . . well, you know, a shanty-town woman.’
‘Well, we all have things in our past that we’re ashamed of, and Rhiannon had a tough life as a child. No one could blame her for taking the only way she knew to put food in her belly.’
‘You were the making of that girl, Bull, turned her from a whore into a good woman, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Bull was strangely pleased by Seth’s words. It was comforting to think he might have helped Rhiannon make a better life for herself. He got to his feet. ‘I’d better be off.’ He stretched his arms above his head and looked up at the sky, a vast blue other world, far removed from unhappiness and pain.
Suddenly there seemed no point in going home to a house empty of love and laughter. Nevertheless, he walked away doggedly and climbed on to the road where he gazed at the busy streets. He felt small, a nonentity, a man alone.
‘Well, I’m sorry we couldn’t do all the business today.’ Mrs Paisley clung to Rhiannon’s arm. ‘I suppose I was optimistic in thinking that the bank could sort everything out with one visit.’
