Arian

by Iris Gower

  ‘Come upstairs. We can’t talk here.’ She walked briskly around the counter and slid the bolt on the door into place. She felt his nearness, sensed his longing to reach out to her and she moved quickly towards the stairs.

  He followed her and soon, they were standing together in her apartment. He made a move towards her but she held up her hand and he stopped, looking at her, waiting for her to speak.

  ‘Calvin, I’m married. Nothing can change that,’ she said shortly. ‘I don’t want to be a mistress, not any more.’ She looked up at him knowing that she loved him but the price she would have to pay for his love was too high.

  ‘Arian, I’m offering you my love, my protection. I won’t treat you as a mistress, I’ll treat you with the respect I would give my wife. You’ll be my wife in everything but the law. I’ll make a will and you will be cared for. I love you, Arian.’

  It would be so easy to give in to him, to fall into his arms, to let him take charge of everything, but then she would be nothing more than a kept woman. She shook her head.

  ‘It wouldn’t work, Calvin.’ She knew now she must hurt him. He was silent, waiting for her to continue and she swallowed hard.

  ‘You’ve had mistresses. You know full well it’s not the same as having a wife. And I’ve been a mistress, and a wife. Now I want more out of life. Having you that way wouldn’t be enough. Can’t you see that, Calvin?’

  He stepped back a pace, hurt as she knew he would be by her bald refusal of him. She spoke quickly in a brisk, businesslike voice.

  ‘What I am looking for is backers for my newspaper. If you should be interested in risking your money with me again, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’ She turned her back on him and there were tears in her eyes as she heard him leave the room.

  His footsteps on the stairs were heavy. She heard his measured tread, listened to the outer door being opened and knew she’d turned away the only man she’d ever love.

  ‘Goodbye, Calvin.’ Arian took off her coat. She was in no mood for shopping, not now. She sat in a chair, curled her legs beneath her and tried not to remember the look of pain in Calvin’s eyes. Was it worth it, the newspaper, the whole damn shooting match? Was anything worthwhile if she was never to know a man’s love?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was a fine day. The sun was breaking through the clouds and the birds were singing when Bridie walked out of St Peter’s church on the arm of her new husband.

  ‘Happy?’ Paul looked down at her and Bridie longed to reach up and kiss him. He was so handsome, his eyes so bright as they looked into hers, his tanned, lean face turned towards her as though she was the only thing in the world he wanted to see.

  She nodded, unable to speak. Of course she was happy. She had just what she wanted, Paul at her side, his ring safely on her finger. Admittedly she’d schemed a little, seduced him with promises of their business merger and yet, she was vain enough to think that in the intervening weeks since they’d met, he had fallen in love with her, if only a little.

  Bridie was nothing if not realistic. Had she been Jono’s poor relation, Paul wouldn’t have found her in the least interesting but then she was not a beautiful woman. She was the first one to admit it. She would be a good wife to him and a good mother to their children when they came along and she would always love him, whatever he did.

  She wasn’t a stupid woman. She knew that there had been relationships before; he wasn’t a man to live as a monk. That he was experienced in affairs of the heart was as plain as the nose on her face. She smiled a little at her own self-deprecating joke. Paul touched her ringed finger gently.

  ‘I can see you are happy by the look in your eyes and I promise to try always to keep you feeling that way.’

  She looked up at him wistfully. ‘Just love me a little, Paul,’ she said. ‘Just a little, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘You have that already,’ Paul said. ‘I do love you Bridie. You are gentle and honest and good. I know I will always be the only man in your life, you are that sort of woman.’

  ‘You read me well,’ Bridie said. ‘There’ll never be anyone else only you.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘Something worth more than gold or diamonds,’ he said, ‘a faithful wife.’

  Why did the words make her sound so dull? Bridie wondered. She was so different to the women Paul must be accustomed to, so different and yet wasn’t that what attracted him? Well, he was her husband now and his ring was on her finger. They were bound together by the ties of the church and the law, and by her devotion for Paul.

  She held onto his arm and felt a wave of joy flood through her. She was a bride, something she thought never to be and beside her was the most handsome man in all the world.

  As the days and nights of her marriage slipped by, Bridie discovered that she was a passionate woman. Her love for Paul was more than matched by her desire for him, something which seemed to give him great happiness. He delighted in giving her pleasure and though she was still a little shy of being naked before him, he was not offended. Indeed, he seemed to relish her modesty.

  He was to return to sea within the week and Bridie arranged a dinner for two in their home. She wanted the atmosphere to be just right; it would be her farewell to him, after all, this would be their first parting since they were married. They sat close together at the long dining table, the candlelight shimmered over the silver and glass and Bridie felt a deep contentment fill her. The only cloud on the horizon was that soon Paul would have to leave her.

  They talked quietly as they ate and Bridie scarcely tasted anything of the fine dishes the cook had prepared. She watched Paul’s expressive face, admiring him so much. He was still very young and yet so wise in the ways of the world.

  ‘Why do you keep looking at me?’ Paul asked at last. He rose from the table and held out his arm to take her into the drawing room.

  ‘I want to savour this moment.’ She was near to tears. ‘I want to imprint you on my mind as well as on my heart.’

  He drew her close and looked down at her earnestly. ‘I love you, Bridie. Remember that always.’

  That night, as she lay in his arms, Bridie listened to the strong beat of Paul’s heart and wished he never had to go away from her. But the sea was part of him. She’d known that when she met him and there was nothing to be done about it. She wanted to stay awake, to savour the last night they had together but slowly sleep claimed her and when she awoke, she was alone.

  It didn’t surprise Bridie to find, as the weeks went by that she was with child by her new husband. Paul was a virile, vigorous man and she was a healthy young woman. Any day now, he would return to her arms and then she would tell him the wonderful news. But before that happened, there was a long weary time to wait, endless days and even longer nights to live through.

  She spent her days shopping and sewing, preparing for the new baby. She didn’t want to share the news with anyone, not even Jono, not until she’d told Paul.

  She followed the Swansea Times faithfully, buying every edition, turning to the tide tables and the shipping news. Always she feared storms. Ships were lost at sea but she tried not to dwell on it.

  Arian had begun a new column. It was trivia, really, gossip about the prominent people of Swansea but Bridie could see how it would appeal. Most folks were nosy and wanted to pry into the lives of others.

  Paul wrote, but often his letters took weeks to arrive. Bridie ordered a crib and lace covering for it in pure white decorated with rose buds. Would it be a boy or a girl and did it matter?

  The days passed pleasantly but Bridie was only marking time. Her entire being yearned for Paul and she longed to be in his arms, to tell him all that had happened since he’d been away.

  At last, the news came. His ship was to dock at first tide. Her husband was coming home.

  She dressed with care, concealing her thickening waistline with a full jacket of fine worsted that hung past her hips. She’d had it made especially, knowing it would be useful
for the coming months. Her hair was glossy and her eyes bright; impending motherhood seemed to have given her a bloom that even she couldn’t fail to notice.

  She stood on the dockside and waited impatiently while the pilot ship nosed into port like a fussy hen leading a stately matron.

  Then he was coming towards her, his hair lifting in the breeze and she was in his arms, breathing in the very scent of him.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ She clung to him. ‘I can’t believe you are here at last.’

  The salt breeze lifted her hair. He glanced down at her, his eyes shrewd. ‘You look different, what’s happened?’ He brushed her cheek with his lips and lightly kissed her mouth.

  All her fine resolve to tell Paul the news once they were home in their own house faded away. ‘Guess what, my darling? You’re going to be a father.’ Paul stopped quite still, his eyes searching hers. She nodded.

  ‘It’s true, Paul, we’re going to have a baby.’ She felt her heart beat swiftly. What would his reaction be? Would he be upset that she had conceived before they’d had a chance to enjoy their marriage?

  He swept her into his arms and held her close. ‘My dear girl, that’s the most wonderful welcome home I could have had. We’ll have a son, you’ll see, a fine boy to follow in my footsteps.’

  Bridie laughed but her eyes were moist. ‘It could easily be a girl, mind,’ she said softly, ‘but we’ll love the baby whatever it is because it’s ours.’

  ‘Of course we will. Come on, let’s go home so that I can show you how happy I really am.’

  * * *

  The Swansea Times was continuing to grow in popularity. As a weekly, it was eagerly awaited and was snapped up the moment it was in print. The advertising was paying its way and the only problem Arian experienced was finding enough news to fill the pages. She’d not yet found a reporter; the women in the town were either not adventurous enough to come forward or were not qualified for the post. She placed a fresh advert in the paper, wording it differently. The inducement offered a senior reporter a partnership some time in the future.

  The advert bore fruit. The man who entered the offices was older than Arian had expected him to be, almost fifty she supposed. He was also somewhat eccentric in his dress.

  He entered the front offices with a flourish of his hat and put down a sheaf of notes on the desk as though presenting her with the Holy Grail.

  Arian indicated that he should take a chair and began to read. She forgot the sounds of the office around her, the chatter of the young reporters, the scrape of pen on paper, the to and fro of people coming into the office with advertising, blocked out everything but the work before her.

  Her spine tingled. She saw at once that this man had a flair for writing that was outstanding. His syntax was original and pithy, his style brisk and newsy.

  ‘You are very good, Mr …?’ she smiled up enquiringly.

  ‘Machynlleth Brown,’ he said. ‘Some quirk of my mother’s mind, apparently. Most people shorten the name to “Mac” – more digestible.’

  ‘You can certainly write … Mac, but I need someone to go out and look for the news. Would that be within your …’ she had been about to say capabilities, but somehow the word seemed insulting, – ‘scope?’ she ended lamely.

  He gave a broad smiled revealing unevenly spaced teeth. ‘I am not as sear and ancient as I appear, madam,’ he said with humour. ‘I make it a rule to walk ten miles at least every day. I think I would be able to get around Swansea and its environs without too much trouble.’

  ‘In that case, you’ve got the job.’ Arian rose and held out her hand, establishing their relationship as a business one at once.

  He took her hand and shook it warmly and then leaned from his great height over the desk. ‘I inferred from the wording used in your advertisement that you are looking for more than a reporter,’ he said. ‘Was that simply a hook, a sprat to catch a mackerel, to use a much maligned cliché?’

  ‘It was a genuine offer,’ Arian replied. ‘I want a partner, in due course, but first we must see how things work out.’ She looked at his shabby clothes doubtfully. ‘Do you have money to invest in the paper?’

  ‘No’, he said bluntly, ‘I have nothing but my talent which is considerable, as you can see.’

  Arian smiled. ‘I like the modesty … Mac.’ She paused. ‘Right then, can you start at once?’

  ‘I can start at once,’ he affirmed, ‘and might I say you have made a wise decision, madam.’

  ‘Yes,’ Arian said slowly, ‘I think I have.’

  Mac proved to be a tireless worker. He found the news with an unerring instinct, ferreting out serious items along with scandals about people in high places and writing the stories with verve and spice. Soon the Swansea Times was now even more successful, bought by even the poor who relished the reports of court cases along with the stories of the vagaries of the social set who lived in the big homes of Swansea.

  It was Mac’s idea that the paper become a daily and Arian considered the matter carefully. ‘Do you think we could manage it, though?’ she asked. ‘There’s so much more work to a daily. I’d have to employ more people, more junior reporters – you and I couldn’t cope with the admin alone. As well as that, poor old Billie Bishop would need more than a little help on the typesetting and printing side.’

  ‘Granted,’ Mac said, ‘but we would increase our sales enormously if we brought out six editions as opposed to one. It’s worth the risk don’t you agree?’

  ‘Hmn, let me think about it.’ Arian chewed her lip as she tried to control the excitement that was like wine in her blood.

  ‘It’s worth considering then?’ Mac prompted and Arian smiled at him in a sudden surge of determination.

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s certainly worth considering.’ She held out her hand to Mac and he took it with a slow smile that revealed his uneven teeth.

  ‘Then that’s good enough for me.’ He gripped her hand tightly. ‘You and I, madam, are going to own the biggest newspaper in the whole of Wales, do you realize that?’

  ‘I think you could be right, Mac.’ Arian smiled warmly. ‘And you know what else I think? I think it was my lucky day when I met you.’

  Gerald was in the comfortable sitting room in Sarah’s house looking down at the Swansea Times, the page of print washed with sunlight. A feeling of anger gripped him. So Arian was making a go of it, and alone without him, her husband. If it wasn’t for that oaf Jono Morgan, he would be with Arian now, close to her taking her to his bed, as was his right. Oh, she had been glad to marry him to get out of that French jail, hadn’t she? She’d given herself to him so sweetly, so submissively and now she had turned into someone cold and hard, someone he didn’t know.

  Sarah came into the room and looked at him carefully, and Gerald became aware that he’d been twisting the cord of the curtains in his hands almost as though it was a noose.

  ‘Gerald, are you all right?’ Sarah asked softly. ‘You haven’t been drinking, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t been drinking,’ he said sharply, ‘but if I want to drink, I don’t need to ask your permission do I?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Sarah’s tone was conciliatory. ‘But Gerald, something is wrong. You’ve been behaving so oddly of late.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said in a flat voice but he did know, exactly. It worried him too that his moods seemed to take a tremendous swing. Sometimes he was buoyant, full of optimism and then the next moment he would be plunged into despair, as though the world was about to cave in on him.

  ‘Do you think you should see a doctor?’ Sarah asked in a tone meant to placate him but which instead angered him.

  ‘For God’s sake woman, I’m all right. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Sarah turned away and Gerald realized that she was afraid of him. He was suddenly contrite. He moved towards her and held out his hand to touch her shoulder and she actually flinched.

  ‘Sarah, what is it? Hav
e I suddenly become repulsive to you?’ he asked, feeling bewildered and uncertain, feelings that were new to him and unwanted.

  ‘You mean you don’t remember?’ she asked tremulously. ‘You don’t know that last night we had a terrible row? You looked at me as though you would kill me, even raised your hand to me, and all because I mentioned Arian and that blasted newspaper of hers. Does she have to pick on people like me, writing about me, spreading trivial gossip about my love life?’

  Gerald shook his head. ‘You’re exaggerating. I don’t recall being angry.’ That’s what worried him, he didn’t seem to be in complete control of his mind sometimes. It was probably nothing to worry about, nothing at all. And yet he was afraid and Gerald Simples knew why he was afraid. In his family, and more markedly in his cousin Price Davies, there had been a streak of strangeness that some might call madness and some might describe simply as evil. Gerald didn’t know if it was a trait he might have inherited and for a brief moment, he was tempted to confide in Sarah but he hesitated, some stones were best left unturned.

  ‘I’m sure you are concerning yourself about nothing,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry if I was moody. I’ll try to control my impulsive nature.’ He smiled and put his arm around her waist, his mouth against the warmth of her neck. ‘But not in all respects.’ His voice was muffled as he felt Sarah’s immediate response to his caress. He smiled to himself. Women were so easily pleased, show them you wanted them and they would forgive you anything.

  Later, Gerald decided to take a walk into town, his mood one of dissatisfied restlessness. He would talk to Arian, tell her to keep her nose out of his business. If she didn’t want him as a husband then why write these insinuations about him and Sarah. Oh, it was cleverly couched, of course. No-one was mentioned by name but everyone in Swansea knew who the woman in the piece was. How many wives lived apart from their husband and only son? It was vindictive and cruel, pointing the finger, disturbing his comfortable life-style. If it went on too long, all this publicity, Geoffrey Frogmore might make difficulties for his wife and her lover.