Longing

by Mary Balogh

  It sounded almost as if she had no choice. What if she said no? But she had no wish to say no. She had had her eye on Owen Parry long before he had started walking home from chapel with her during the winter.

  “Owen,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder, “I want more than anything to be like other women. I thought I was when I married Gwyn. Don’t marry me and then die as he did.”

  “It takes a lot to put Owen Parry down,” he said, chuckling. “Siân.” He set his mouth against hers again. “Let me in, cariad. A wedding it will be next summer, or sooner if your belly swells before then. Let me in. Under here, is it?” His hand slid up her leg beneath her skirt, from her ankle to her knee.

  It was a decision that must be made in a moment. She returned his kiss, holding his hand still on her knee with her own on the outside of her skirt. If she took him into her now, she would be drawn into the protection of his strength and of his world for the rest of her life. It was what she wanted more than anything. Or she could hold back, defer the decision for a while longer.

  “I don’t want to,” she whispered. “Owen, I don’t want to.” She was well aware that he might take no notice of her protest. If he did not, she would give in. She did not want the ugliness of rape between them. And part of her did want it—very badly. Part of her yearned to give herself over to his care.

  He flung himself away from her and got to his feet. He stood staring down the valley toward Cwmbran.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, clasping her arms about her knees again. “I did not mean to lead you on by coming all the way up here with you, Owen. I did not realize how high we had climbed.” Because she had been agitated by their brief meeting with the Marquess of Craille. “I just want kisses.”

  “Did you ever go up the mountain with Gwyn?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at her.

  She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “But only once, a week before the wedding.” She had agreed to go because she did not want to have it for the first time on their wedding night, in the small bedroom between his parents’ and Huw and Mari’s. She had wanted to be quite alone and private with him the first time.

  Owen looked back down the valley. “It is because of your mother,” he said. “You do not give yourself easy, Siân Jones. Maybe it is what I have always liked most about you, that aloofness, that holding yourself dear. Though the part of me that is throbbing and in pain at this very moment does not like you particularly well.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. That holding yourself dear. She wondered what he would say if he knew about last night. She rested her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes. She did not want to think about last night.

  “So am I,” he said quietly. “I can’t kiss you yet, Siân. I can’t touch you. Give me a few minutes.”

  They were quiet for a while. She was grateful to him for showing such restraint. She should not have come up so high with him. She had not meant to do so. It must have seemed that she was willing.

  “Owen,” she asked, “did you try to stop Iestyn from being punished last night?”

  “I told you,” he said, “I don’t know any Scotch Cattle.”

  “Who does, then?” she asked. “If you do not, Owen, who does?”

  “He got off lightly, didn’t he?” he said. “Nothing in his house destroyed. Only ten lashes with the whips. He was even able to go to work today, I heard.”

  “Iestyn would have been too stubborn to stay at home,” she said. “But his poor back, Owen. You should have seen it. Red and raw. They even drew some blood.”

  “Well,” he said, “he got off lightly enough, Siân. He should not have held out against the rest of us.”

  A thought struck her suddenly. “Was it you?” she asked, looking up at his back. “Was it you who arranged for the lighter punishment, Owen? Was it? Would he have had twenty like the other men? Was it you?”

  “I don’t know any Scotch Cattle, fach,” he said. “I have no influence.”

  But she leaped to her feet and crossed the short distance between them to wrap her arms about his waist from behind and to rest her cheek against his shoulder.

  “It was you,” she said. “You stopped them from destroying his mam and dada’s house, and you talked them out of whipping him too badly to go to work today. You did, didn’t you?”

  She heard him blowing out his breath. “The less you know about such things the better, Siân,” he said. “We will go back down, will we? It will be dark soon.”

  “Owen,” she said, kissing the side of his neck, “I love you. I love you, I love you.”

  He turned and wrapped his arms tightly about her and kissed her hard. “Do you want to get it after all?” he said. “Don’t tempt fate. Down to Cwmbran we will go and it will be to bed with you—alone, at your grandad’s. Hold hands, is it?” He released her and held out a hand for hers.

  She took it and held it tightly. She smiled warmly at him. “Thank you, Owen,” she said, falling into step beside him. “Thank you for doing that for me. I knew there was something you could do. You are wonderful.”

  “You know nothing about it, Siân,” he said quietly. “And I thank the good Lord for that. But I like to see you happy, cariad. I do like that.”

  It felt good suddenly to be Owen’s cariad.

  Alex had had news from London that was both disappointing and disturbing. The Charter, despite many thousands of signatures from all parts of the British Isles, had been rejected by Parliament. It had been inevitable, of course, when Parliament was controlled by all the largest landowning families of the realm, who had a vested interest in keeping things the way they were.

  But although Alex was among the largest of those landowners, he had hoped that things would be otherwise. It was high time the masses of the British people had more say in how the country was run. He had been able to see that especially since coming to Wales.

  But it had been rejected.

  His letters advised him to prepare for trouble. The industrial workers would not take the rejection lightly. Perhaps they would do no more than grumble. Perhaps they would do nothing more seditious than get together some other petition. Or perhaps they would strike and riot and cause all sorts of disruption in the quiet running of the country. Who knew with the ignorant masses? Alex was advised to swear in special constables or—better still—to bring in soldiers as a show of strength, just to discourage the majority from listening with any seriousness to the revolutionary minority.

  Britain did not want to invite anything like what had happened in France just fifty years before.

  Alex was a little worried. The Chartists he had encountered on the mountain had urged the men to join an association in addition to signing the Charter—for just such a situation as this. What was the point of an association if the Charter was passed? The organization was intended to prepare some action in the event of its being rejected. And it had appeared that almost every man of the valley had been at the meeting.

  The Chartists were prepared to enforce membership and to punish severely those who held out against them. According to Barnes, there had been two other whippings up on the mountain the other night, apart from the one Alex had witnessed. Only three men had defied the order to join? It was a serious matter. And the men would not be happy at today’s news, especially at a time when they had the other grievance over the drop in their wages.

  And yet the last thing Alex wanted to do was give a show of force himself. Especially soldiers. He would bring soldiers in only as a very last resort. Damn it, he was in sympathy with the people!

  He summoned Owen Parry to Glanrhyd Castle—the leader of the Chartist meeting. One of the puddlers at the ironworks. Siân Jones’s lover. He was trying hard not to think of Siân Jones. He hoped she would not come back to the castle.

  When Owen Parry was shown into the library, it was obvious he had come straight from work, althou
gh his face and hands were clean. He wore work clothes, and there was a suggestion of gray dust about them and about his dark curly hair. He was a big man—not very tall, but solid in build. The solidity looked to be all muscle and very little fat. He was not a man one would care to cross, Alex thought with an inward sigh as he looked up at Parry. The man held his cap in his hand, but made no attempt to bow his head or pull at his forelock or show any other customary sign of subservience. Alex was becoming used to the proud Welsh.

  “Owen Parry?” he said. “Thank you for coming so promptly. Have a seat.” He gestured to one at the other side of the desk at which he sat.

  Owen Parry looked at it as if he suspected some trap and then lowered himself gingerly into it. He looked steadily into Alex’s eyes. Alex found himself wondering quite irrelevantly if the man was gentle or rough with Siân.

  “Parliament has rejected the Charter,” he said bluntly. “I had word this morning.”

  Parry’s jaw hardened for a moment and then his face went blank and slack. Stupid. “What is that to me?” he asked after a short silence, which Alex had decided not to break.

  “A great deal, I would imagine,” he said. “Since you campaigned for it and chaired a large meeting up on the mountain for it.”

  Still the blank, stupid look. The man shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

  Alex sighed. This was not going to be easy. “I am not setting a trap,” he said. “I am as sorry as you that it was rejected. Or perhaps not quite as sorry—I believe it was very dear indeed to your heart. I watched your meeting. If I had been going to take any disciplinary measure concerning it, I would have acted before now. But I need to know what your future plans are likely to be.”

  Owen Parry had a gift for making himself appear totally without character or intelligence. If Alex had not seen him on a few previous occasions, he would surely have been convinced. He waited again for an answer.

  “You have the wrong man,” Parry said. “I don’t know anything about any Charters. What are they anyway? And what does Parliament have to do with them? I don’t know anything about any meeting on the mountain. I don’t know what it was you saw. I should get back to work if you will excuse me.”

  “Not for a while,” Alex said. “I pay your wages. You will not lose them for the hour or so you are away from your job this morning. Let me put it this way, then. The government is expecting trouble and in no mood to take it. Having said no, they have to flex their muscles and show that they mean no. It would be unwise to do anything further—for a while anyway. Let it rest for a year or two.”

  Owen Parry stared at him. He shrugged. “Whatever you say,” he said. “Whatever it is you are talking about. My English is not as good as it could be. I don’t understand too well what you are saying.”

  “I would hate to be put in a position of having to enforce law and order when I am basically in sympathy with you,” Alex said.

  The man merely shrugged again.

  “Don’t put me in that position,” Alex said quietly.

  Parry laughed. Just as if he really did not know what was going on. Just as if he really was all at sea in a foreign language.

  Alex sat back in his chair and surveyed his visitor for a few silent moments. Siân’s lover. He assumed they were lovers. They had been walking hand in hand up into the hills last night. It was unlikely they were doing so merely for the exercise. Besides, he knew from experience how mere kisses and the light roaming of hands could turn her hot and ready. Had she been like that last night for Parry? It was none of his business. Absolutely none whatsoever. He pursed his lips.

  “Perhaps we should work on a local scale rather than on a national one for a while,” he said. “Perhaps we could talk, you with some other representatives of the people, and I. There are many things I do not understand, many things that disturb me, many that I need explained. Perhaps we could talk. See what we could do together to improve conditions, to make life happier and more prosperous for all of us. Would you care to attend such a meeting if I arranged it?”

  For a moment the mask of stupidity slipped and Alex glimpsed naked hatred and incredulity. He felt quite taken aback. Was he, then, so much the enemy that he was hated and his every word disbelieved? Then the mask was firmly in place again.

  “I don’t know anything about meetings,” Parry said with a laugh. “Who would come with me? And what would I say? You have the wrong man. I just do my job by day and mind my own business by night. I don’t need to be made happier. Or more prosperous. I have my wages.”

  “You are content that they have gone down ten percent?” Alex asked.

  The man shrugged yet again. “I take what I am given,” he said. “I am not a troublemaker.”

  Alex drummed his fingers on the desktop. “What do you know about Scotch Cattle?” he asked.

  Owen Parry laughed. “This is Wales,” he said. “Not Scotland.”

  For the first time Alex felt patience deserting him. “If you were as stupid as you are pretending to be,” he said, “I doubt you would have a job as one of Cwmbran’s most skilled workers, Parry. Do you know who any of them are? I would be willing to bet you do. It would be strange indeed if one of the leaders of a movement did not know the identities of any of the enforcers of that movement’s decisions.”

  “Look”—Parry spread his hands before him, palms out—“we don’t mess with Scotch Cattle. We don’t talk about them. And we certainly don’t know them.”

  “They are disembodied spirits,” Alex said. “Totally unknown to anyone but themselves. I have a message for them, Parry. I trust it will reach them somehow. I will not have my people terrorized. Chartists want freedom and democracy for all British men. Well, then, let Chartists grant that freedom of choice to its followers and to those who choose not to follow. Perhaps I will let the property damage and the whippings of two nights ago pass this time. But if it happens again I will hunt down the Scotch Cattle, especially their leader, and I will see to it that they are treated as they treat their victims—with a strong dose of their own medicine. See that they are informed of that.”

  The blank look became blanker, if that were possible. “How am I supposed to do that?” Owen Parry asked.

  Alex got to his feet. “I am sure you will find a way,” he said curtly. “Good day, Parry. You may return to work.”

  Owen Parry got to his feet without a word and left the room. Alex felt the childish urge to pick up a book and hurl it after him. Instead he curled his hands into tight fists at his sides. The man looked as strong as an ox. Alex just wished—damn it, he just wished he had an excuse to fight him. He wanted nothing more at this precise moment than to punch that blank, stupid look off the face of the Chartist leader.

  God, he wanted to fight someone.

  * * *

  Siân went up to Glanrhyd Castle in the evening. The summery weather seemed at last to have broken. It was a cloudy, chilly evening, with a suggestion of rain in the air. But she had promised to go and so she would do so. She still convinced herself as she walked through town and past the ironworks that she had not quite made up her mind. She had not even told Gran where she was going when she left the house. But deep down she knew that she had decided.

  She wanted the job badly. She hated the one she already had, and no telling herself that other women did it and had no choice and that she wanted to be like other women could take away one iota of the hatred. There had been an accident during the day—a cave-in, as usual. It was not fatal this time or even very serious—one man had broken his arm. But Siân had been close when it had happened and her heart had chilled to his single scream and she had felt the paralyzing terror that all miners felt at such moments that the whole seam was going to come down on their heads and crush them or bury them alive.

  She wanted to be Lady Verity Hyatt’s governess. She liked teaching and was good at it—s
he taught at Sunday School. She liked children. And she liked cleanliness and fresh air and civilized living, though she felt almost guilty admitting as much.

  Only one thing made her seriously hesitate. And it was a big something. She found him so very handsome and attractive—as what woman would not? And she knew that she had attracted him—on a purely base and physical level. A man like him would not think twice about seducing a woman like herself. Sir John Fowler was such a man. And yet, to be fair, she had to admit, the marquess had been the one to end their last embrace on the mountain. She had been witless with desire. It was a humiliating and rather frightening admission to make to herself. She would be playing with fire by taking a job in his home.

  She was shown into the same room as before in Glanrhyd Castle. It was a large, high-ceilinged, square room, with an ornately painted ceiling and heavy-framed portraits hanging on the walls. There was a carpet underfoot. She had once heard that there were seventy-two rooms inside this building. To house one man and his daughter. It seemed almost obscene.

  And then the door opened and he stepped inside. She felt rather as if she had been punched in the stomach. He was so very immaculately and elegantly dressed and so very blond and handsome. And he looked so formal and remote as if he could not possibly be the same man who had kissed her and touched her and desired her on the mountain.

  “Mrs. Jones,” he said briskly, advancing into the room as someone closed the door behind him, “you did come. Good. What have you decided?”

  He had called her Siân on the mountain. He had obviously put the encounter behind him. This was a business meeting. His manner was totally impersonal.

  Well, then, she would act the same way. She looked him calmly in the eye. “I would like to give it a try,” she said. “But on one condition.” She had known all along that she could do it only on that one condition.